


Fate, or Something

by HermaeusMora



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everyone's just a little happier, Fluff, M/M, Minor canon-typical spookiness, Slow Burn, bad dates to friends to lovers, canon-typical worms, romcom shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-02-09 22:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 107,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18647296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermaeusMora/pseuds/HermaeusMora
Summary: "You can't be serious." Jonathan Sims raises his eyes at last to properly look at Georgie, expecting her to laugh and make some quip about finally getting him to put the damn book down, at least."Well, Iam," she shoots back.He sets his book aside and turns fully towards her, betrayal clear on his face. "Ablind date, really?"Jon makes the frankly terrible decision to go on a blind date with one Martin Blackwood. Fate ensues. AU where Jon and Georgie are still friends, Georgie likes finding dates for her friends, Martin doesn't work at the institute, and everyone is just a bit happier while canon spooky stuff goes on in the background. Takes place juuust barely pre-canon in the beginning but catches up quickly. Inspired as usual by the wonderful conversations with my friendRavenXavier/somuchbetterthanthat.





	1. Chapter 1

"You can't be serious." Jonathan Sims raises his eyes at last to properly look at Georgie, expecting her to laugh and make some quip about finally getting him to put the damn book down, at least. Because she _couldn't_ be serious.

"Well, I _am_ ," she shoots back. She crouches down briefly to pick up the purring cat circling her ankles, then makes her way over into the living room and takes a seat on the couch next to Jon.

"Oh, don't be like that. You'd think I'd just asked you to fuck Elias."

Jon grimaces, recoiling, as Georgie laughs. " _Language_ , Georgina. But to be honest even that might be preferable," he grumbles. He sets his book aside and turns fully towards her, betrayal clear on his face. "A _blind date_ , really?"

She scratches the cat's head distractedly, shrugging. "I know, I _know_ , but I just thought I'd bring it up. You've been so grumpy lately, and you've been working way too much-" Jon opens his mouth in automatic protest and she presses on before he can cut in. "-And so I thought it might do you some good to have some _fun_ , for once, Jon. Meet people. Get out of that stuffy institute and spend some time with someone that isn't me or The Admiral here. Or your creeper boss."

The Admiral in question abruptly pads his way across the couch and climbs onto Jon's lap.

"Now look," Jon says, indicating the cat. "You've offended him." He sighs. "Listen, I- appreciate that you care, I do. Always. But you and I both know that I'm not really cut out for...” He waves his hand in a vague gesture. “Dating. Any of that. You of all people should be all too aware."

Georgie’s mouth quirks up in a rueful half-smile. "Our relationship had its... ups and downs, to put it mildly. Pretty heavy on the ‘down’ part towards the end. But I care about you, Jon, and you're my friend and I want to see you happy. You deserve to be happy.” She sighs and holds up her hands in a conciliatory gesture. “-But I'm sorry, you're right, I know this isn't your sort of thing and you’ll get back out there when you’re ready. _If you’re ever_ ready. I shouldn't try to push you."

She reaches over and ruffles his hair, causing him to scrunch his face in annoyance and lean sharply back out of her reach. The Admiral lets out an irritated ‘brrrt’ before resuming his kneading of Jon's thigh.

They move on after that; Georgie turns the tv on, settling on a nature film for lack of anything else catching her attention, and Jon goes back to his book, each of them chatting idly here and there throughout.

At one point Jon glances up at the screen and sees that they’re doing a segment on insects. Georgie catches his nervous expression. “Don’t worry,” she tells him, “the second I see a spider I’ll warn you not to look up.” He huffs irritably in response but visibly relaxes. Awhile later she makes a comment about ordering takeout later and they get into a small argument about who is going to pay. (Jon insists that he at least pay for his half; Georgie finally insists that they flip a coin for it, much to Jon’s disdain. Georgie ends up paying. Jon will slip some money between the couch cushions later. Such is their routine.)

Despite the evening having very much moved on, Jon’s thoughts, however keep drifting back annoyingly to their earlier conversation. He still can’t believe Georgie thought that was even remotely a good idea. There’s no way she could have. She knows him, and therefore knows that his experiences with people are unfortunate enough when he’s already familiar with them and knows what to expect. Or, more often, he admits to himself, their experiences with _him._ He scowls down at his book, becoming aware that he’s been reading the same paragraph over and over. He glances up at Georgie to see if she’d noticed, but she thankfully seems fairly engrossed in the migration patterns of puffins. The Admiral is curled up snugly between the two of them, fluffy tail twitching in his sleep.

"...So,” Jon says at length, “tell me about this mystery date? I'll admit I'm curious who you thought would actually be a good match for me."

Georgie starts and looks surprised at him for a brief moment, then, recovering, smiles brightly and pats his arm. "Now if I told you that, it wouldn't be a mystery, would it?” Then, “His name is Martin Blackwood, though. I know him through Melanie's- hey, don't make that face! Melanie’s cool if you're not a dick." She fixes him with a rather pointed look.

Jon tries but doesn't entirely succeed in schooling his expression into something gentler than open disdain. "Yes, well, I have to say I'm disappointed, Georgie. That you would think anyone in association with that... show-"

"Oh, don't be such an elitist. Is it really so different? He's into ghosts, you're into ghosts..."

Jon makes an indignant sound. "I am not- _into ghosts_ -"

Georgie waves him off, continuing, "Anyway, he's really nice. Pleasant. Warm. Thought it might balance you out. Opposites attract, and all that."

“Ah, a very scientific selection process, I see.”

Georgie laughs, then, looking at him curiously, asks, “Why’d you ask, by the way?”

Jon flusters a bit and turns back to his book, making a show of flipping the page. “It was odd enough that you even suggested it, so it stuck in my mind I suppose.” He can still feel her watching him, though, and he very pointedly does not look up.

“Were you… considering it?”

He looks up. Sharply. “ _No_. ...Maybe. _Maybe_ , but it’s stupid - it was just an idle thought and I certainly would never _act_ on-”

“Wait, are you serious?” She’s staring at him with open disbelief. Skeptical. “You’re not telling me you were actually going to do it.”

“I _just said_ I would never- What, are you trying to talk me out of it now?"

"No! Not at all! I thought I’d chance bringing it up, but I never thought you'd actually consider it. But you’ve been thinking about it the whole evening, haven’t you? You, Jon Sims, a blind date. Why?” She studies his face now, thoughtful, resting her chin in her hand.

Jon is feeling a bit defensive now and his voice takes on a sharp note, more out of habit than actual annoyance. "I don't _know_. It was your idea. I, I just- you're right, I suppose. My life right now could use some... _fun_." He spits the word out like it bit him, getting a fond eye roll from Georgie. He continues, "Some variety. Whatever people are supposed to have in their lives. And maybe if I actually go through with something this absurd, it’ll satisfy your need to get involved in my personal life for awhile.”

A less fond, more exasperated eye roll this time. “You know I’ve only set you up one other time, right? Nearly lost a friend over it, too. You should appreciate my sacrifice.” This gets a snort from Jon, and she continues, “So. You’re really going to give it a try, aren’t you?”

He laughs a little, despite himself. Mostly _at_ himself. “It-- looks like I am. I know it's going to go horribly, for the record. And I will come immediately over afterwards and announce my victory."

“You’re the only person on the planet who goes on a date hoping to have a bad time. But fine! If it does go that badly, I'll buy you dinner to compensate."

"You _just_ bought me dinner. How about you agree to stop meddling in my love life?"

"Or lack thereof, you mean? And only for six months."

"A year."

She grins and holds out her hand. "Deal. I'll set it up tomorrow and text you the details."

* * *

"W-wait, wait. You mean you were _serious_ about that?" Martin Blackwood sets down the stack of books he’s been carrying with a thud, straightening up and pressing a hand to his aching lower back. He casts a skeptical look at his phone propped up on the table, where Georgie is on the screen, eyebrows raised, awaiting his response. "I thought you were joking! We agreed that you were banned from helping me find dates after the taxidermist incident."

"He told me he worked with animals! You like animals! I honestly thought it was a good fit."

"He brought a dead bird to our date, Georgie. He sat it right on the table."

"Well, just hear me out. I know this guy really well, and he is one hundred percent bird-free, I promise. His job is actually a lot like yours. He's a researcher at the Magnus Institute."

“Oh, _god_.” Then, "Sorry, sorry. Just, you know. They have... a reputation. But I shouldn't judge, I know."

"He had a dickish reaction when I told him your job too, so you already have something else in common," Georgie informs him cheerfully. "But really, he's... sweet. Or can be, in his own way. _Really_. Once you get past his prickly exterior and asocial tendencies."

"Sounds promising," Martin deadpans. "Shall we skip straight to the wedding? Jesus, you really know how to sell a guy. I don't want to know what you told him about me." He takes out his notepad and skims the list that Melanie had given him to fact-check for the upcoming Ghost Hunt UK episode.

From his phone, he hears Georgie make a mock offended noise. “Martin Blackwood, you know I have nothing but the best to say about you, always. I just want you to be prepared, if you accept. He’s just... But I wouldn’t be offering to set this up if I didn’t see you two being good together.”

He shakes his head at her, incredulous. It’s a terrible idea - dating is risky enough and blind dates rarely go well - but he has to admit, his routine has been feeling stale lately. He’s been feeling - "You know what? I'll do it. I don't know why I'm still willing to put my romantic future into your hands, mind you, _especially_ after that glowing description, but I'll do it. It's..."

He turns his attention to the stack of books, begins distractedly sorting them. "It's been awhile. And, you know... I get on with my coworkers and I love my job, and I have hobbies, yeah, but...” He picks his phone up. “Alright! Set it up! Let's meet your prickly asocial mystery man."

Georgie beams at him. "Great. This Wednesday work for you?"

“Good as any.” They say their goodbyes and Martin ends the call, trying not think about what he’s just got himself into.

* * *

Jon is having a small box of raisins at his desk in lieu of a lunch break the next day when his phone chimes in his pocket. It's a text from Georgie: _Jonathan Sims Fun Initiative Update: Italian place down the street from my flat, this Wednesday, 7:30pm. Don't be late!_

A few seconds later, another message pops up: _Disclaimer: You have to actually make an effort, or the deal is off. Be charming! I know you have it in you! Good luck! Xoxo_

Jon stares at the texts for a moment, dread forming heavy in his stomach. Oh right. The date. _What the hell was I thinking_. For a moment he considers telling her he's changed his mind and to call the whole thing off. Instead he just sends a terse reply confirming that he'd received her instructions and shoves his phone back in his pocket with a scowl.

 _A date. Really. A blind date, of all things, with some- 'Martin' who works on that awful excuse for-_ Jon releases a long-suffering sigh. It's only dinner. It shouldn't be too painful. And he was serious when he'd admitted last night that he could use some fun in his life. Not that this is _remotely_ his idea of fun, but it's a change of pace at least. He realizes he can't remember the last time he spoke with someone who wasn't Georgie or a coworker. ...Or Elias. He shudders. And he doesn’t know where to begin fixing that himself, branching out, or if he even needs to.

And one deeply unfortunate museum date with a mutual acquaintance aside, he hasn't even thought seriously about dating since he and Georgie broke up. That experience alone was enough to finally convince him that romance wasn't for him. And it's really not. He doesn't miss it, doesn't feel anything lacking for not having it. But here lately, sometimes when he listens to his coworkers, overhears them bantering and talking about shared outings and their lives outside the Institute, he feels... He feels. Something he can't quite categorize. Perhaps he's lonely. He hasn't really thought about it in a long while. As a rule he doesn't make a habit of examining his emotions too carefully.

But it’s possible that… on some level, he thinks it could be nice. To at least try. To do something. To just have _some_ one around. Georgie is around, but sooner or later she’s bound to meet someone and want to build a life with them and then--

Jon banishes that train of thought abruptly. Unhelpful. Wednesday he's going on the damned date because he’s _bored_ and curious and also to make Georgie happy and get her off his back about his personal life. But for now, he has work to do.

* * *

To his credit, Jon does intend to actually make it to the restaurant on time. But he was out for four hours chasing a lead on a recent statement that had come in, only to come up frustratingly short and to have to head back in to spend the day scouring the institute’s library. He's deep in the third reference book from over a dozen at his desk when his phone buzzes from somewhere beneath a stack of papers. He straightens up with a grimace, stretching a bit before excavating his phone from the clutter and swiping to the message screen.

It's from Georgie again: _Because I know you, I know you haven't left work yet, so just a heads up that your date is in 45 minutes! Don't be late!_

...Shit. He glances at the time stamp on the text. That was nearly thirty minutes ago. _Shit_.

He arrives at the doors of the restaurant at 7:43pm. In the time it took him to get there, he'd received three new texts from Georgie, to the effect of "have you left yet", "oh my god you're late aren't you", and "Jonathan Sims answer me right now". He's opted not to answer for now. One problem at a time.

He stops for a moment outside, thinking that Georgie would probably want him to at least check his reflection before going in, and then makes the pointed decision not to. With that final act of defiance, Jonathan Sims lets out a long breath and pulls open the door.

* * *

Georgie had chosen Wednesday, 7:30pm as the appointed time for the date, confirmed Martin's availability, and assured him that she would inform the mystery man. Jonathan Sims, she'd said his name was. Jonathan Sims, that one Italian place, Wednesday, 7:30pm. _Sounds good_ , he'd said. _I'll be there_.

Which is how Martin Blackwood finds himself nearly tripping down the stairs in his rush to get out of his flat at 7:31 Wednesday evening, having barely had time to throw on some halfway respectable date clothes and grab his wallet before barreling out the door.

Shit. _Shit, shit, shit_. He only just manages to flag down a passing cab. He gives the driver the address and flops back against the seat, panting. Winces internally as he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirror; Christ, he hadn't even had time for a shower. He makes a half hearted attempt at finger-combing his hair into some sort of order but quickly gives up, exasperated and ready for the evening to be over before it’s even begun.

How had the time gotten away from him so badly? He swears it was only just 3 o'clock and he'd sat down to research some local haunting lore for that upcoming episode. He scrubs at his face, still feeling drained from the hours gone by reading.

The cab pulls up outside the restaurant, and Martin pays the driver and gets out, checking the time on his phone. 7:43. His face heats with embarrassment. Ah, well. Nothing for it. He rushes for the door, checking himself in his phone screen and making one last attempt to tame his hair--

\--And subsequently slams directly into the back of another person, knocking them straight through the open doorway, where they both collapse in a heap on the restaurant floor. Because of course. _Of course_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, and thank you for reading! I'll be trying to update on a regular schedule; I already have several chapters written so it shouldn't be too difficult to keep up. I'm [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to come say hi!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for extreme secondhand embarrassment. Please note the updated tags. It's a really bad date, y'all. But I promise it gets better soon! Stay with me!

...Ouch. Jon's head is already throbbing where it hit the floor with a sharp crack. He is currently being crushed beneath the weight of another human being, with what he's pretty sure is an elbow digging into his right kidney. _Ouch._

The weight is gone and now hands are grasping him, pulling him to his feet. The entire restaurant is staring, he notices through the dark spots swimming in his vision. A voice is babbling behind him, frantic, distressed.

"- _so_ sorry, I am so sorry, oh my god. I'm an idiot, what was I- I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

Jon blinks a few times, shaking his head - a mistake, _god_ , _a mistake_ \- and turns around to see his assailant.

The other man looks close to tears, probably from embarrassment judging by how red his face is. Jon, for his part, just wants to hurry and get out of this as painlessly - ha - as possible. He brushes himself off, brusquely waving the man away.

"It’s fine. I'm- fine. Let's just try to pretend this never happened." Before the man can open his mouth to reply, Jon turns abruptly and heads into the restaurant with whatever is left of his dignity, shrugging off the host's concerns. _On the bright side_ , he thinks dryly, _this night couldn't possibly get any worse_.

"Jonathan Sims. I'm supposed to be meeting someone. A, uh- Martin Blackwood."

The host checks the guest list. "I'm sorry, sir, no one by that name has arrived yet. Would you like to be seated while you wait?" A small blessing then, Jon thinks. At least he'll have a moment to sit and compose himself. He nods and follows the host into the restaurant.

* * *

This night couldn't possibly get any worse.

Martin is standing outside the restaurant, back pressed hard against the side of the building. Breathing. Deep, calming breaths. And trying to decide whether to call this whole thing off.

It was already bad enough that he was late. It was bad enough that he hadn't had time to shower or make himself at least look like he’d showered. It was _bad enough_ that he'd literally body slammed an unsuspecting stranger into the floor of the restaurant where he was rushing to meet another stranger who Martin would assume had probably witnessed the whole thing.

Except--

Ha. Haha ha. Yeah.

\--Except when the stranger gave his name at the host's counter and Martin felt the blood drain from his face as he realized that the stranger he'd accidentally assaulted and the stranger he was meeting for a blind date were the _same person_.

Martin risks a peek inside. He can see the stranger - Jonathan Sims, prickly, asocial _Jonathan Sims,_ his _date_ \- sitting at a booth off to the right side of the restaurant. He looks, well. He looks pissed, to be honest. Though Martin can't begin to blame him. Jonathan Sims checks his phone, looks around, seems to sigh and sit back in his seat, resigned. Prods gingerly at a spot near his temple, wincing in pain.

Oh, hell. _I guess I at least owe him an appearance, after all this_.

Steeling himself, straightening his clothes and giving himself a quick once-over in the glass, Martin gathers all of the courage in his possession and ventures back inside.

"Hi, I'm here with Jonathan Sims?"

He sees Jonathan look up sharply, having heard his name, and withers internally at the series of reactions - none of them good - that pass over the man's face as soon as the realization hits him.

Martin smiles sheepishly, apologetically, as he weaves his way through the restaurant and slides into the booth. "So uh. Some first impression, huh?"

He can see Jonathan trying his best to smooth his expression into something more pleasant. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again, clears his throat.

“...Yes.”

...Great start. Their waiter comes to take their drink orders, then hurries off again. Martin waits for a long, awkward moment, seeing if he's going to get any other response, then swallows his embarrassment and presses on. "So, Jonathan, right?"

"Oh, just Jon, please. ...And you're Martin."

Martin tells himself that it wasn’t uttered like an accusation. "Yep, that's me. Nice to meet you, Jon." He smiles at him pleasantly. Jon is very likely trying to smile back, but he mostly looks like he's in pain. Which, he probably is. Christ. "I'm so sorry, again, about - you know. Is your head okay? Looks like you're going to have a nasty bruise."

Jon glances up from where he'd begun studying one section of the table with determination. "It's fine. I think my kidney is worse off, honestly." He seems to be trying for a laugh this time.

Martin turns red, stammering. "Oh! Oh god, you're right, I'm sorry, my elbow, I fell right on- Seriously, are you okay?"

Jon puts his hands up. "No! I mean yes. I'm okay. Sorry, was just trying to- well. I really am alright."

The ensuing silence is very likely the single most painful one Martin has ever experienced. Fortunately, their waiter chooses that moment to return with their drinks, asking if they're ready to order. Martin glances at the menu and picks the first thing he sees, knowing he likely won't have much of an appetite anyway, at the rate this is going. From what he can tell, Jon seems to be of much the same mind.

Their orders taken, Martin decides to seize the opportunity presented by the interruption to try to turn this thing around.

“So, Jon. Um. Do you have any… hobbies?”

“I-” Jon looks thoughtful for a moment. “I work a lot.” He seems to fluster a bit at the flat look Martin gives him and adds quickly, “-I read, too, though. When I can find the time. I like to read.”

“Oh, great! I mean, that’s cool. Reading. I read too.” _Good job, Martin. Way to flex your conversational skills_. Jon hums at him in response. Martin tries again:

“So… what do you read? Like, what genres, authors…?”

“Ah, mostly nonfiction, these days. I- enjoy learning. About anything, really, but the supernatural is obviously a subject of particular interest. As much of it as can be considered nonfiction, at least.”

Martin smiles at that. It’s something. “Gaining knowledge! A noble goal.” God, that sounded pretentious. He moves on quickly. “Uh, and the supernatural, yeah, me too. I’m interested, I mean. It’s fascinating, the things that happen to people. That happen in this world. So much we can’t understand-”

Jon grimaces at this. “I don’t like not understanding. That’s why I read about it; _to_ understand. Or try to.” He blinks, shakes his head. “Sorry, that was- What about you? What do you read?”

Martin doesn’t think he looks like he cares about the answer in the slightest, but oh well. He's getting it. “Lots of things, really! Fiction, nonfiction. Fantasy is a big favorite. Uh, romance? Poetry. I like poetry a lot.”

Jon raises his eyes again from that one deeply fascinating spot on the table. _Now_ he looks interested. “Poetry? Who do you like?”

Finally, making some headway. “Lots of different ones! I can appreciate just about any.” Shyly, he adds, “I know this sounds silly, but I um, I’ve been writing some of my own for quite awhile. Nothing big, just bits here and there, as inspiration strikes.”

“Oh?” And that’s not much of a response, but Jon is still looking at Martin and seems to be waiting for him to continue, so that’s a good sign.

Emboldened, Martin presses on: “Yeah! I’ve got a few notebooks filled up. Lately I’ve been drawing a lot of inspiration from Keats-” Aaand Jon’s interest vanishes instantly. He frowns slightly and looks as if he’s about to say something, but then just returns his attention to his good friend, the table.

The poetry topic is officially dead, then. Jon could at least help him out here, but that doesn’t seem likely. Martin exhales slowly. "So." He fidgets with his fork. "How do you know Georgie?"

Jon looks honestly baffled at being spoken to again. But he takes a sip of his drink and stares into the glass, as if considering how to answer. "Georgie and I are… old friends. From university.” His mouth quirks in what actually looks like the beginnings of a real smile. “She seems to take this as proof that she's honor bound to find me a life partner."

Martin nods. “Sounds like Georgie. You’re the third guy she’s set me up with. She just likes to see people happy, I think.”

Jon scoffs at that. “She’s just bossy and likes to meddle. Thinks she always knows what’s best for you, and is determined that you get it.” It was said with more fondness than with any real heat, though, that Martin could hear. After a beat, Jon continues, “What about you? I mean, how do you know Georgie?”

"Oh! We met through work. The show. Ghost Hunt UK, that is. I think she mentioned she told you..?"

Jon's expression turns carefully neutral. "Ah, yes. She did tell me."

Martin laughs. "Is that a problem?"

"N...no. Just- Nothing. Sorry. Please continue."

Martin lets it drop. "Well... yeah. Georgie and I became friends through the show. We've collabed with her a bit in the past; couple of us have been on her podcast, we've consulted her for some tips regarding stuff for- Okay. No. That face again. What is it?"

"It's nothing." An irritated sigh. "I don't... mean to be rude."

"No, by all means," Martin presses, crossing his arms over his chest, starting to feel a bit put out. "Go ahead. Be rude."

Jon winces, though Martin can't tell whether it's directed at him or inwardly. "Look, you- you seem like a nice enough person, but what you do for a living… I just have trouble understanding why someone would want to be associated with that sort of thing."

Now Martin is definitely put out. " _That_ sort of thing? _What_ sort of thing? Ghost stories?"

"Staged and heavily edited _youtube_ drama, produced only for shock value and to generate views-"

"Well, the entire point of producing a show is to get people to watch it, yeah," Martin snips back. "And for your information-"

Jon talks over him. "It's insulting! It cheapens the entire genre, and makes it that much harder for legitimate paranormal experts to be taken seriously."

" _Legitimate_? Oh, you mean like the Magnus Institute." Martin hears his voice turn sharp and sarcastic.

Jon bristles. "Yes, actually. _We_ at least do something real."

"What? Take down wild made-up stories from, from conspiracy nuts and stoners? At least someone actually gets something out of our show - which, for the record, I as a researcher ensure is as factual and authentic as possible - what do you do? Your institute doesn't even try to _help_ the people it takes these so-called 'statements' from. You just. Collect them. It would be creepy if it wasn't so... so pointless."

Jon and Martin each sit back in their seats, red-faced and glaring.

The waiter's timing is impeccable as ever. "Here you are, gentlemen. Enjoy your meal."

* * *

The silence is jarring as they each pick at their food; the clinking and scraping of silverware sounding unnaturally harsh.

 _Stupid. This was a stupid idea and I knew it. What the hell was I_ \- Jon barely tastes his dinner, so lost he is in his thoughts and mentally berating himself and the man across from him in turns.

He truly hadn't meant to start a full-blown argument, but he shouldn't be surprised. He knows he's a prick; god knows he's been reminded enough over the course of his life.

 _Not that you’ve tried to do much about that_ , a voice helpfully supplies. Probably his conscience. Or Georgie. One and the same, really, when it comes to these matters.  
  
He can admit that he's at fault here. Mostly. He hasn't really put forth his best effort tonight. But that's only because he suspects that his best effort would turn out so much worse than not trying at all. Georgie would call it 'self-sabotaging'. He calls it realizing that this was an unbelievably stupid idea and trying to get through it with as little damage done as possible. _Outstanding job so far_ , he thinks.

He risks a furtive glance at Martin; the man is still flushed and visibly agitated, though whether from anger or nerves from the encounter, Jon can't tell. He watches Martin push his food around the plate, set his fork down, check his phone, pick his fork back up and finally take a bite - rather aggressively; still angry, then - and then repeat the process all over again.

“ _Do you mind?_ ”

Jon startles and looks up properly. “Sorry?”

Martin looks unimpressed. “I expected even _you_ to realize that staring at people while they eat is rude.”

Jon looks away. Takes a deep breath. Turns back to him. “I’m... sorry.”

Martin snorts at that, humorless. “Bit melodramatic, but it’s alright. Just stop staring and we’re good.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “No, I mean- for earlier. That was unkind of me.”

“Ah.” Martin resumes his meal. “It’s fine. Georgie warned me; I honestly don’t know what I expected. Why I even-- Let’s just get through this. You can leave whenever you’re ready, of course, but I’m hungry.”

Jon can’t help but laugh a little to himself. “Of course she did. ...Why…? Why did you come, then? If you don’t mind me-”

“I do. Mind, I mean. Look, you’ve made it very clear that this was a terrible idea. You don’t have to try to play nice. I tackled you to the floor and gave you several minutes of awkward conversation; you insulted me, my colleagues, and my livelihood for no good reason.” Martin shrugs. “We’re even.” He waves to the waiter as he passes. “We’re ready for the check, please.”

Oh, come on. Now who’s being melodramatic? “I gave you an apology. Even though you _did ask_ and I wasn't saying anything that's not-”

“Unbelievable! You are- unbelievable.” Martin shakes his head, jaw tight. “Tell me, Jonathan Sims. What exactly was your goal here, tonight? Why are you even trying to - what? Salvage this? - when you clearly think so little of me?”

“I-” Jon falters, frustrated. Unsure. Frustrated at being unsure. “...You’re right. This was a terrible idea.”

Martin takes his wallet out, throwing down enough money to cover his half of the bill. “Goodbye, Jon. Good luck out there. Say hi to Georgie for me.” And with that he gathers his coat and leaves without looking back. Jon gives him enough time so that they won’t have to see each other out on the street, then does the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...So. As I said. It gets better soon. I SWEAR I'm going to let them fall in love and be cute. This chapter is the most unhappy it's going to get. Thank you for reading! And as always, I am [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to come find me. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this one a few days early because I lack self control. Will be posting chapter 4 on Monday and then trying to make myself stick to my schedule from there. We'll see. I get excited.

True to his word, Jon heads straight for Georgie’s flat after he leaves the restaurant. Part of him would really rather be alone to decompress after the social nightmare he’s just endured, but he finds his feet leading him there regardless and he doesn’t have the energy to argue.

He lets himself in, not bothering to turn on the light as he drops his coat on the floor and makes a beeline for the couch, flopping down with a sigh.

Footsteps approach from down the hall. “Jon? Is that you?” Georgie appears, peering into the living room, backlit by the hall light. “Jon! You didn’t answer my texts. Did you make it to the restaurant? How’d it go?”

Jon sinks further into the couch with a tired groan.

Georgie makes a sympathetic sound. “That bad, huh? I’ll make us some tea and you can tell me all about it.” She gives his arm a gentle squeeze as she passes by on her way to the kitchen. The Admiral, having followed her out, jumps up onto the arm of the couch with a soft “mrrrp”. Jon reaches up to scratch under the cat’s chin.

Georgie returns a few moments later, setting two mugs down on the coffee table before flipping on the light. “Now, tell me what-” She freezes, staring at Jon, her expression morphing into alarm. “Oh my god, Jon! What happened? Did you- did you get in a _fight?_ What did you do?” She hurries over to the couch.

“Did I- _what?”_ Jon stares at her for a long, confused second, then remembers his unfortunate head injury. “Oh! Oh this, no. Just had… a bit of an accident.” He scowls at the memory. “I’m fine.” Hisses in pain as Georgie leans down and begins prodding at his forehead. “Or I would be! Please, I’m okay, Georgie. Just. Sit down.”

She relents, sitting with her legs folded under her on the other end of the couch, facing him, cradling her mug in her hands. Eyes still worried. “What happened?”

Jon takes a sip of his tea. “Well. I made it to the restaurant. Several minutes late - which was entirely accidental!” he hastily adds, seeing her open her mouth to reprimand him.

“He was late too, it turns out. And in such a rush to get there that he ran into the back of me and knocked me to the floor. Hence. You know.” He gestures at his still faintly throbbing head. Georgie cringes.

“Oooh, that’s a bad start. Or cute, depending. But I have a feeling this isn’t a cute story.”

Jon smiles wryly. “Not remotely. So, bypassing all the tedious details: we made uncomfortable small talk, then he brought up his... _job_ -”

“Jon, no.”

“-and I may have had a few things to say about it. To be entirely fair, I tried to let it drop, but he kept pushing, so I spoke my mind. He disagreed strongly. I attempted to apologize, but he was done with our evening and frankly, so was I.”

“Oh, Jon.” Georgie sets her mug down and turns back towards him, expression both sympathetic and reproving. “You didn’t have to go on the date, you know. I really would have let it go.”

He looks at her curiously. “I know that. I told you I wanted to go. I just- changed my mind once things got underway, I suppose. I’m sure it happens.”

She shakes her head. “You didn’t just change your mind. You deliberately sabotaged yourself. Like you always do. With everyone. You’re so lonely - deny it all you want, I _know_ \- but you push away anyone who even thinks about trying to get to know you. You didn’t even try not to be a dick to this guy.”

Ah. Jon doesn’t answer. He’s tired and irritated at himself and at people as a whole and would really rather not be having this conversation. Again.

Georgie seems to realize this and decides to spare him for now, as she continues after a beat, “...Which, for the record, I’m obligated to be mad at you about. Martin’s my friend, too, and a really nice guy. Plus I have kind of a bad track record with my date recommendations for him and you’ve ruined any credibility I had left.”

This gets a hint of a tired smile from Jon. “And yet you recommended me? I believe you deliberately sabotaged yourself, Georgie Barker.”

She stretches across the couch and shoves him gently, then scoots over next to him, leaning into his shoulder. “Want to watch a movie? I found one that I’m sure you’ll hate.”

“My favorite pastime,” he responds dryly. But he settles in more comfortably, facing the television. Tonight’s failure - as stupid as it is, and god, honestly, what had he been thinking - is nagging at him more than he’d ever admit, and he’s eager for a distraction. It was definitely his own fault. And- not entirely unintentional. It’s true that there may be a… pattern of sorts, there. And perhaps just this once, he’d had the faintest hope that he might do something about that. ...On a date with a total stranger, yes. Jon will admit he isn't known for his rational decisions in these matters. He frowns at himself and pushes that aside for now.

The Admiral appears suddenly and headbutts Jon’s shin before hopping up onto his lap and curling up. He absently strokes a hand through the cat’s soft fur while Georgie pulls up the movie - something about some haunting or other, and promising to be painfully generic. He makes an exaggerated noise of disgust and Georgie laughs as she turns up the volume. At least he has this. It’s far more than he deserves, and it’s enough.

* * *

The crew is currently preparing to head out for filming; checking and double-checking equipment and getting everything packed up and secured. As for his part, Martin was up all night doing some last minute fact-checking, just to be thorough - because it’s his _job_ and he _takes pride in his work_ and not because of anything that _Jon Sims_ had-- Yeah. And then just to be safe, he got up again extra early to make sure everything was in order, just in case his work had been sloppy due to how agitated he’d been over--

Needless to say, he didn’t get a whole lot of sleep.

Judging by Melanie’s expression when she spots him upon his arrival, it shows. She raises an eyebrow, looking him over. “Yikes. Rough night?”

Martin rubs the back of his aching neck. “Long. Bad date, followed by a long night, followed by an early morning.”

Melanie abruptly sets down the lens she’d been cleaning. “Wait, wait, back up a sec. Did you say ‘ _bad date_ ’?”

“Is it that surprising?” He sets about helping with the packing.

“You actually having a date? Well, yeah. -No offense!” she adds, not looking like she cares all that much whether it was offensive.

“Ha, ha. For your information, I'm actually quite a catch. And I do have dates? Fairly regularly? When I’m not too busy chasing ghosts for you. But this one…” He lets out a long breath.

Melanie grabs a few flashlights and a pack of batteries and stows them in a bag. “Tell me about it while we get ready. We can hate the bastard together.”

This gets a genuine laugh from Martin, as he moves to gather up some spare chargers. “God, he was an ass. I mean, I get he was little pissed because I ran into him and knocked him on his face-”

“Oh my _god_ , this is so you already.”

“... _Thanks._ Anyway. Next was the most uncomfortable conversation of my life. Not even about anything, just. Talking. Books. But it was like pulling teeth to get a word out of the guy. I don’t know why he was even there.” Martin shakes his head incredulously at the memory. “I thought I finally was making progress when I brought up poetry; he seemed to like that. ...And then I mentioned Keats and he looked at me like I’d murdered his whole family.”

Melanie snorts. “Jesus. So… was he, y’know, hot?”

“Wh- what? I don’t kn- Kind of? Yes? I guess?” Martin splutters, flustered and face going pink. “He wasn’t... bad-looking, okay? I did notice. He was actually- But that’s not the point here!”

“It’s entirely the point.” She shrugs. “Prick or not, you should have at least seen if you could- _you know_. Who knows when you’ll get another chance, I mean.”

“I don’t know what I’ve done for you to think that my love life is so dead-”

She shoots him a pointed look across the desk she’s rifling through. “Martin. If you were getting laid with any kind of regularity, you wouldn’t be sitting through blind dates with assholes who hate Keats.”

He throws his hands up in defeat, turning away and resuming packing with intense concentration. “Okay! Changed my mind; date talk is over. Let’s just get back to work. You’re gross, by the way.”

Melanie smiles sweetly and tosses a duffel bag in his direction. “You’re welcome. Talk to me any time.”

* * *

They’re taking a break from filming when Martin’s phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s a call from Georgie.

“Hey, so I heard how the date went. I am so sorry. Forgive me?”

He grins, despite the subject matter. “You didn’t lie, though. There were zero dead birds involved. So I might be able to forgive you. Maybe. In a couple years.”

He hears her shuffling around on the other end; what sounds like the creak of a pantry door followed by The Admiral meowing. “For the record,” she says, coming back, “I really did think you two could hit it off. If he could have just behaved himself.” An exasperated sigh.

Martin stands up and begins absently pacing the room; stops and straightens a tripod that had been knocked askew. “ _Can_ he behave himself? God, and he told me you two are old friends? How does that even work?”

She pauses for a beat, then he hears her hum thoughtfully into the speaker. “Confession? Exes, actually; it was years ago though. We’re good friends currently.”

He blinks. “Oh, wow. Wow. No offense, Georgie, but you have awful taste. Also? Setting me up with your _ex?_ Not cool.”

“My pool of eligible bachelors is only so big! I’m doing my best. Besides, like I said, he _really_ can be sweet-”

“Georgie Barker _don’t even_ go there. You’re forgiven, but not that forgiven.”

She laughs. “Well, again, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. How’s the shoot going?”

They chat a bit more, about work, mostly - Georgie is considering having him and some of the other crew back on for another episode in the near future - until the break ends and Martin has to go. By the time they wrap up that day’s filming later that night and a bunch of them head out for drinks, Martin has managed to put Jon Sims and the previous night almost entirely out of his mind. Thank god.

* * *

It’s about half past 1 in the morning when Martin finally bids the others goodnight and heads for home. It’s a chilly autumn night, but the pub they’d chosen isn’t too far from his flat and he’s in the mood for a walk, pleasantly buzzed and feeling warm from the alcohol as well as the company and conversation.

Something - someone - a vaguely familiar figure, he thinks - catches his eye from across the street and he stops for just a second to look. He almost loses sight of the figure behind an influx of traffic but then, no, there they are. There _he_ is. Across the street, going the opposite way, walking briskly, coat pulled tight around him against the crisp air or perhaps the whole world, is Jon. Of all people. _Oh come on..._ Martin begins internally, annoyed at being so immediately reminded of the man’s existence. But annoyance is quickly replaced by something else as he watches him make his way alone down the late night street.

Unlike Martin, and unlike many of the other people wandering London at this hour, Jon doesn’t look like someone returning home from a night on the town. Though Martin admits that could be his personal bias that Jon doesn’t seem like someone capable of having fun. But still, something about the sight makes him feel just a little sad. _Guy like him can’t have a lot of friends_ , he muses. _But then again, that’d be his own fault._ And then immediately after: ... _Then again, I don’t have too many friends myself._

Still, at least Martin's not a dick. Or he tries not to be. Unless they deserve it. And he does have his coworkers, and Georgie is nice. Not that he knows anything at all about Jon’s - a practical stranger’s - personal life, he reminds himself. Nor does he _care_. The man just cuts an undeniably lonely figure out there, whatever the reasons, and Martin always was one to have too much empathy-

At that moment, Martin’s train of thought is brought to an abrupt halt as Jon stops short and begins looking around as if he’d somehow heard himself being thought about. His gaze wanders across the street and lights on Martin. Martin, who is frozen in place, watching with horror as Jon’s expression morphs from confusion to recognition, and then he doesn’t see what comes after that because he desperately unfreezes himself and turns and continues on his way at a - conspicuously, he knows - rapid pace, not slowing down or looking back until he’s reached his flat.

Empathy be damned, the last thing Martin needs is an awkward run-in with the man he just had the world’s shittiest first date with. He’s having a much better night tonight and he’d like to keep it that way, thank you very much.

He practically slams the door behind him and doubles over, panting. ...And feeling a little foolish, after the fact, because what was Jon going to do? Chase him? Chastising himself, he straightens up and locks the door and begins shrugging out of his coat and shoes. It’s late, and he has work tomorrow, so he really should be getting straight to bed, but he still feels the adrenaline of his hasty retreat pumping through him and needs to wind down some before attempting to sleep.

So instead he grabs a poetry book off the side table and settles onto the couch to read for a little while. He scowls slightly as the page immediately flips open to Keats, then scowls _more_ at Keats being something to scowl at now. Taking a deep breath and forcing himself back into a more pleasant mindset, he begins to read it anyway. Because he _likes_ Keats, and he wants to, and not as an act of stubborn defiance. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I am [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to come and say hi :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon obsesses. Elias is creepy. Fate continues to intervene.

Jon grumbles to himself the next Monday afternoon, shoving away the pages he'd just finished fruitlessly scouring, and leans back in his seat. He glances at the clock; just half past two. He begins to mentally calculate the time it'd take him to get to down to Mr O'Connell's antiques shop to see if he knows, well. Anything. _Doubtful,_ he thinks sourly. Another sigh. He stands slowly, reaching for his coat and messenger bag. Better get going if he wants-

"I do hope this means you're finally going to lunch."

Jon jumps, startled. Bangs his knee on the corner of his desk. Bites back a litany of swears before composing himself and slowly turning around, expression tightly neutral.

"Afternoon, Elias."

Elias Bouchard is, in fact, standing a few feet from Jon’s desk, face professionally inscrutable as ever. He absently smooths his tie - a garish piece of fabric, lurid green with a repeating pattern of eyes and starkly out of place against his otherwise mundane business attire - and then clasps his hands loosely in front of him.

"Did I startle you?” He asks mildly. “My apologies. I just thought I'd stop by and see how you were getting on."

Wonderful. “I'm- not getting on, to be honest,” Jon admits. “All the seemingly relevant materials we have on hand have been nothing but dead ends." He closes his eyes, rubs at the bridge of his nose. "I was actually just about to go visit Mr-"

Elias cuts him off with a wave of his hand. "You've been here since five this morning, Jon. I value your drive, of course, but you’re an important asset and I need you in good health. Go for a walk. Grab a coffee."

Jon doesn't really know what to say to that. Sure, he's a good researcher, but the praise and attention feel over the top. They always do. Still, Elias is his boss, his rather unsettling boss, so he simply nods his understanding.

Elias smiles pleasantly. It doesn't reach his eyes. It never does. "Good." Begins to turn to leave, then, "I'm glad to see your head is looking better, Jon. That was a nasty fall you took."

Jon looks up from where he’d reached down to grab his bag. "Oh. Yes, thank y- wait- I don't think I mentioned that I... fell?"

"Hm? Oh no, you didn't, did you." It's not a question.

Once again, Jon doesn't know what to say to that. He feels a prickling sensation at the back of his neck. "Ah..."

Elias chuckles, gratingly polite. "Relax, Jon. I just assumed, from the nature of the injury. It was simply a lucky guess. Now go take a break, you clearly need it."

Jon does so, as quickly as he can without outright fleeing the room. He swears he can physically feel those cold eyes on his retreating back. The man makes him so uneasy. He's never done anything overtly creepy; he's practically the human embodiment of a golf course. But... He seems to habitually know far more than he should, in little ways that seem innocuous enough on their own, but once you put them all together, it's... well. Creepy. And he always looks so damned smug and _knowing_ about it.

Plus, Jon thinks with that same uncomfortable prickling, the Institute Head has been oddly invested in him and his work since first hiring him; way more so than with any of the other researchers. Tim and Sasha tease Jon about it, citing favoritism, but Jon... he doesn't know what it is and he wishes he could feel pleased at the attention and what it might mean for his career, but he mostly just wishes Elias would back off a little.

He sighs, slinging his bag over his shoulder and nodding to Rosie as he exits the building. Elias is unfortunately right, though; Jon needs a break. He hadn't even realized how hungry he was until the smells from some of the nearby shops began to waft towards him from up the street. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to stop for a quick lunch.

He chooses a small, cozy-looking cafe and steps inside. It's busy and crowded, which Jon normally would avoid at all costs, but the atmosphere is pleasant enough and he’s become even more aware by now of how famished he is. Once he’s ordered, he looks around until he spots a recently vacated corner table next to the window. He weaves through the cafe, making his way over to sit down and taking out a notebook to review some case notes until his food arrives.

He gratefully mumbles a thank you when a tray is set in front of him, places the notebook back in his bag with a sigh and unwraps his sandwich.

His… sandwich that he most definitely did not order. Ah. Great. Just as he’s standing up to return it, he hears a voice from near the counter saying “Um, excuse me, pardon- I’m so sorry, but I didn’t order the roast turkey, I-”

Jon quickly approaches, raising his voice over the noise of the lunch crowd, “Did you get the BLT, by any chance? I think you must have got mine-”

And stops short as he finds himself face to face with Martin Blackwood. “-Oh.”

Martin looks equally thrilled. “Oh.” Then, “Uh, yes, BLT is mine, should be. And you got... roast turkey, no tomato, white cheddar?”

“Yes, that’s mine. ...You seem to have examined it rather thoroughly.”

“Sorry about that,” Martin replies flatly. “My hands are clean.”

“I’m sure they are.” Christ. Jon attempts a polite smile to at least temper the painful awkwardness. He’s not sure if it’s successful. Martin doesn’t try to smile back.

Someone shoulders past Jon, casting him an annoyed glance and reminding him that they are standing right in the middle of busy cafe traffic. “Anyway. We’re in the way here, so. Here’s your sandwich.”

Martin’s stony face quickly turns pink and flustered as someone else squeezes past, and there’s an awkward shuffle of hands as they attempt to hand off the respective sandwiches at the same time, nearly dropping them, but in the end they manage. Jon tries to think of something to say to lighten the mood; a joke perhaps, or a simple thank you, but as soon as he receives his food, Martin turns on his heel and stalks out of the cafe. Well then. That’s fine. Jon watches him leave and then turns back towards his table--

\--only to discover that someone had snagged it while he was away. Of course. _Thank you, Martin_ , comes the sarcastic thought, at least somewhat unreasonable as it may be. Having looked around and not spotted another good seat, Jon stops by the Corner Table That Got Away and grabs his bag from where he’d sat it by the wall - yelps in fright at the fuzzy spider that scurries out from under it, drawing annoyed glances from the table thieves - and takes his lunch outside, resigned. This is what he gets for trying to slow down, for once. Ah, well. He needs to get moving if he wants to interview Mr O’Connell, anyway. As he exits the cafe, he spots Martin again.

He’s leaning against a lamppost across the street, sandwich in one hand, phone in the other. He glances down at the screen, smiles, types something, then laughs softly to himself when a response apparently comes. Jon isn’t… he isn’t one for noticing people, not at all, but… He does notice Martin’s expression when he laughs at whatever is on his screen. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his whole face seems to come alive with it. How- how did Georgie describe him? _Warm_. The exact opposite of the icy expression he’d worn in the cafe just a moment ago.

...The icy expression that quickly returns when Martin happens to glance up and catch Jon staring at him from across the street. Not entirely fair, after Jon had caught Martin doing the very same thing just the other night, under considerably more unnerving circumstances. But fine. Jon scowls almost automatically, abruptly turning and striding down the street. He doesn’t care what Martin Blackwood, a literal stranger, thinks of him. That he met him once and _hates_ him now. It’s understandable, and something that Jon is more than used to by this point and it doesn’t faze him in the slightest. He takes a bite of his sandwich, only to find that his appetite has all but vanished. _Thank you, Martin_.

* * *

“It’s not like you to care so much,” Georgie remarks thoughtfully from her kitchen table two days later, looking up from her laptop. “Not openly, I mean.”

“I _told you_ , I _don’t_ ,” Jon intones from his spot on the couch. He doesn’t look up from his book, but he’s not reading. Not really. He’s - “I’m just saying, the man really hates me.”

“Jon, dear, lots of people hate you.”

“Yes, well- He hardly even has a reason to.”

Georgie looks up again, her expression flat. Jon catches it, then amends, reluctantly, “Alright, I know I said some… things. Things that might have been uncalled for, in hindsight. But I didn’t expect that level of animosity. I even tried to smile at him.” He frowns down at his book again. Georgie hums sympathetically.

He continues irritably, “It’s the injustice of it. The excessiveness. We both said our piece, and now we should be able to move on and inconveniently run into one another in public like reasonable adults. It’s so-- petty.”

Georgie mumbles something indistinct in support, the clack of her keyboard filling the ensuing silence.

A full five minutes later: “I’m letting it go. I’m going to be the bigger person. If Martin Blackwood wants to be a child about this, then he is free to do so. I’m moving past it.”

“Of course,” Georgie replies distractedly.

Jon frowns at her. “Was that sarcasm? Are- are you even _listening_ _?”_

“Yes to both,” she says. “And with love, always. Now if you’re done obsessing over this man you’ve met literally twice, some of us have work to do.”

Jon’s face is burning, to his great irritation. He drops the subject and resumes staring at his book with renewed intensity. After a moment, however, he notices Georgie watching him on the edge of his vision. “...Thought you had work to do?”

“Did you apologize?”

He whips his head up at that, offended. “Wh- apologize? To Martin? Yes, I told you I did. For all the good that did me.”

She cocks a brow at him, clearly skeptical. “Did you _actually_ apologize, or did you do that thing where you go-” she drops her voice lower and puts on an accent- ‘ _We both know I’m right, but I’m going to apologize so you stop being mad at me because emotions give me hives_ ’..?”

Jon is unimpressed. “Was that supposed to be me?”

“You know the answer to that. Now answer mine.”

He slides conspicuously lower in his seat and looks away. “I may… have done some approximation of the second one. But that’s because-”

She interrupts him with a sharp, scolding noise. “Nope! No excuses! You probably won’t get another chance and will just have to live with- whatever the hell this is you’re feeling - but if you _do_ see him again, apologize. Genuinely. It might not help, but it’s something. And the _right thing to do_ , Jon.”

He glares at her, but without much feeling. He knows she’s right. Unfortunately. As usual. And he _is_ sorry, if he’s being honest with himself. Perhaps not for what he said, necessarily, because Martin _did_ ask and Jon wasn't _entirely wrong_ , but-

 _This is stupid_ , he decides, annoyed at himself. _And not because emotions give me hives_. On cue, his arm starts itching. Pointedly refusing to scratch it _or_ think any more about... _any of this_ ... Jon closes his book with a pained, long-suffering sigh. _Stupid._

* * *

 _Oh for fuck’s sake_. It’s a Sunday evening. Martin is currently standing in the supermarket, staring incredulously down to the other end of the aisle, where - who else? - Jonathan Sims has his back to him, browsing for something or other.

This is the fourth time, _fourth. Time._ That Martin has run into the man since their horrible, failed, he’d-really-like-to-forget-it-happened-and-move-on-already mistake of a date not even a month ago. Either the universe is playing a very sick joke, or Jon is stalking him. But considering how increasingly mortified the man seems every time they happen upon each other - he practically turned and ran from him last time, when he’d spotted Martin at the corner of a local coffee shop - the former seems most likely.

Ah, damn it, he’s turning around. Martin hurries out of the aisle, pausing for a moment and contemplating abandoning his cart and coming back another time. _You’re being an idiot_ , he scolds himself. He has just as much a right to be here, and besides, it would be rude to leave the store employees with all of his stuff to put back.

He takes a deep breath, then pushes his cart around the corner into the next aisle.

...And he’d really, really love it if he hadn’t just nearly crashed into Jon right then. He’d love it if his life wasn’t that much of a joke.

But unfortunately, Someone Out There evidently thinks his life is hilarious.

Jon jumps back with a shout as the cart rounds the corner at him, stumbling and dropping his armload of groceries with a clatter. He takes a second to glare at the various cans rolling across the floor at his feet before facing Martin, his mouth open to undoubtedly say something scathing.

Instead, his glare melts into a look of helpless disbelief that Martin is very personally familiar with at this point, and the words that come out instead are: “ _Oh for fuck’s sake_.” At least they agree on that.

They stand there for what feels like an eternity of a moment, each at a loss, staring at one another, before Jon finally kneels down and begins gathering his groceries. “This is getting ridiculous,” he grumbles. “Are you _following_ me?”

Martin looks away with a huff of annoyance. “Right, sure, I just couldn’t get enough after the first time.”

From the floor, Jon sends him a sharp glance. “You really know how to hold a grudge, don’t you?”

“Guess so.” Martin backs his cart out of the aisle, turns to leave. ...And almost immediately turns back with a deep sigh and a twinge of guilt. He _really_ does not want to spend any more time around Jon than he already inexplicably has to. And he _can_ in fact hold quite the grudge. But he also can’t just leave the man sitting alone on the floor of the soup aisle.

“Look-” He exhales harshly. “Sorry about almost running you over. Again. Let me help you with that.”

Jon stiffens. “I’ve got it. You really don’t have to.”

Martin rolls his eyes, already crouching down and reaching for a milk carton. “I don’t have to. But it’s the nice thing to do. People do that, you know. Nice things.”

“Oh for- Honestly, of the two of us, which of us has been more of a prick by now? I think we’re more than even for any missteps I might have made on our d- when we first met.”

Martin doesn’t respond to that. Or necessarily agree. But rather than argue, he shoos a tiny spider off of a can of beans and passes Jon the handful of items he’s gathered up. He watches as Jon takes them in silence, adding them to his precarious armload as he struggles back to his feet.

“...Hold on a second. I’ll grab you a basket.”

Jon starts to protest but Martin cuts him off. “Don’t. I’m not done shopping yet, and I don’t want to watch you dropping things the whole time I’m here. Just _wait_.” He strides off.

When he returns, Jon is standing in the same place, cradling his groceries and studying the shelf of chicken noodle soup with forced intensity and a faint flush to his cheeks. Martin thinks very briefly that it would almost be cute if, you know, it wasn’t Jon Sims.

“Here you go.” He holds out the basket for Jon to deposit the items in.

Once he does so, he takes it from Martin, looking uncomfortable and slightly irritated. _His default expression_ , Martin thinks.

“...Thank you.”

“No problem. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Martin grabs his cart and a can of soup, preparing to move on - finally.

“Wait. Martin.”

Martin groans internally, but stops. “Yes, Jon?”

Jon doesn’t meet his eyes, instead focusing on the basket on his arm. “I… I am sorry. Truly. For being rude to you. I- I have my opinions. And I still- well. But I still should have treated you civilly. I’m not, ah... People. Aren’t my forte. And this has all been extremely uncomfortable and since we seem destined to keep crossing paths-” He shakes his head, as if to re-focus. “Regardless. I apologize, again.”

Jon looks like he’s in physical pain - apologies clearly aren’t his forte, either - but he seems sincere enough this time around, considering there’s no discernible incentive for him to spontaneously apologize in the middle of a supermarket.

Martin studies the stiff, awkward, grouchy man in front of him and feels something inside himself soften, just a little. “...Thank you. I appreciate that. I _still_ don’t think I like you, mind, but if we’re going to be _literally_ running into each other...”

He holds out a hand for Jon to shake. “Start over, but hope we never see each other again so that none of this matters anyway?”

Jon hesitates for a second, then shakes his hand; once, perfunctory. Smiles just the barest hint of an uncertain smile.

But this time, after just a beat, Martin smiles back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are finally turning around! See? I told you they'd get better. Thanks as always for reading, and I'm so glad people are enjoying this fic! As usual, I am [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin, the ultimate Mom Friend, takes it upon himself to keep Jon from giving himself pneumonia, and Jon talks to another human being about his problems.

It’s been just over three months since Martin had last seen Jon, there in the supermarket. It’s as if what had caught them in its web for all those weeks had finally got whatever the hell it wanted and decided to release them at last.

Truth be told, after about a week or so had passed without another encounter, Martin had scarcely thought about the man. Jon’s awkward apology and Martin’s own resolution to let go of his resentment seem to have done the trick; he really had let it go.

And so life had gone on.

Ghost Hunt UK had put out a couple more episodes that are proving to be some of the most well-received yet. Melanie had given him a special shout out at the end of the most recent one, citing him as “the one who makes sure we’re not just hanging out in empty houses spouting bullshit”, and he still can’t help the grin that takes over his face whenever he thinks about it.

He’d written some poetry; even submitted some of it to a couple magazines, but has yet to hear from either of them, went on a date with a very nice owner of an accounting firm who never called him back, got himself a new houseplant that is thriving beautifully, and all but stopped thinking about Jonathan Sims.

The only reason he is on Martin’s mind tonight at all is because Georgie had called to chat earlier and she’d mentioned him in passing. Martin had almost inquired after him automatically but stopped himself, deciding he really had no reason to ask, and then the subject had been changed and the opportunity passed without further thought. So tonight finds him here, walking home from work and idly thinking about the fact that he hasn’t been thinking about Jon.

And as if this thought alone is enough to reach out and draw the eye of the forces of destiny or whathaveyou and make them go, “Oh yeah, that guy”: Who else does Martin notice sitting hunched over on a nearby park bench, leg bouncing agitatedly, plumes of breath and cigarette smoke rising into the night sky?

Martin startles when he realizes what he’s looking at, old habitual feelings of dismay automatically surfacing. Plus, come on, that’s just eerie. The feeling quickly subsides, and Martin is prepared to shrug it off and continue on his way when it occurs to him how late it is. And how cold. It’s a fairly long way from the Magnus Institute and there aren’t any residences in the area, so Jon can’t have just come out for a late night smoke. Besides, he seems… upset.

Knowing he really doesn’t have a choice - he does, technically, but his conscience won’t give it to him - Martin veers off his current course and makes his way over to the bench. Jon seems thoroughly lost in thought and doesn’t look up as he approaches.

Martin takes a seat. “I hope the pneumonia is worth the nicotine fix.”

Jon flinches hard and drops his cigarette with a curse. He turns to look at Martin with wide eyes, fear turning to recognition turning to relief. “ _Christ_ ,” he breathes out, leaning down to pick up his cigarette and taking a long drag, the embers flaring up bright red-orange in the dark. He nods a greeting. “Martin. It’s been awhile. Find someone else to stalk, finally?”

“Ha. Funny. I could say the same about you.”

“I’m not the one sneaking up on people in the dark.”

“Hm, yeah you got me, there.” Martin half-smiles. Then, hesitantly, “Um. I know it’s not any of my business, but... are you okay?” Jon turns to stare at him again, uncomprehending, so he elaborates, “I mean, I saw you here, and it’s getting late, and really cold, and you just don’t look like you’re having a great night?”

Jon’s brow creases and he looks like he’s debating whether to answer, then he tosses his cigarette down and grinds it out with his foot. “I got a promotion.”

Martin blinks at him. “Oh. Congratulations..?”

Jon’s laugh is dry and humorless. “Hardly. Elias- my boss- made me head archivist.” When Martin just waits, he explains, “I’m a _researcher_ , Martin. I, well, I research. I don’t know the first thing about- and my predecessor left the place in such a bloody _mess_ -” He leans back against the bench, letting his head fall back with a ragged sigh.

Martin considers him for a moment, then asks, “Why didn’t you turn it down? If you don’t feel qualified?”

Jon sits up and shakes his head, distress creeping onto his features. “I- I don’t- I don’t know? I know it sounds ridiculous, but… as wrong as I know I am for the position, it just felt… like it’s where I’m supposed to be. I’m not making sense, I _know_ , even to myself. And my boss seemed very insistent upon me taking it. It really is a huge honor, for someone of my age and experience. And I _am_ grateful. He’s been so- ah, oddly invested in me since I started there; he says he thinks I have potential. Potential for _what_ , he conveniently never expands upon.” He scowls. “I just don’t know. But here I am.”

“...Sounds like a lot of pressure,” Martin says sympathetically, once he’s sure that Jon is finished. “Not to mention a shitty boss. Is there anyone there who can… train you? Former… head archivist?”

“Missing, presumed dead.” Jon’s voice is flat and tired.

“Wait, _what?_ That’s- _what?_ ” Martin’s voice rises sharply in alarm. He leans back away from Jon, studying his face in the dark, trying to determine whether he’s serious.

He’s serious. “That’s what they told us.”

“Is anyone, you know, _doing_ anything? That’s horrible!”

“They gave up the search ages ago; all we know is she’s not expected to come back.” He mutters sourly, “Wouldn’t be surprised if she was buried somewhere under that disaster of a filing system of hers.”

“ _Jon!_ ” Martin is aghast.

Jon holds his hands up. “Sorry, sorry; poor taste, I know. God, I’m exhausted.”

“Then, go home, maybe? Go to bed?”

“I…” The agitated leg-bouncing is back again. Jon pulls another cigarette out of his coat pocket, puts it to his mouth without thinking to light it.

“I’ve been trying to put the archives in some sort of order. An impossible task, frankly. But I’m trying to get everything digitized; going back and recording old written statements. It’s slow, but going well enough, for what it is. Except- some of them…” He pauses, taps his fingers rapidly against his knee, brow creased. “Some of them don’t want to record, which is absurd, but I’ve had to resort to using this damned tape recorder I found--”

Martin shivers and wraps his coat more tightly around himself. Jon is babbling on, becoming more irritated and clearly having no intention of getting in out of the weather like a human being. He should politely cut this short soon; bid him goodnight and good luck and be getting home, he knows.

But then again, it occurs to Martin that if the times they’ve met previously and the bits he’s picked up from Georgie are anything to go by, Jon doesn’t at all seem like the “open up about his life to a stranger” type, and that he must _really_ need this. It also occurs to him that there’s no way he can just leave the man out here to catch his death. But he’s not about to stay out here and catch his own, with him.

His decision made, Martin stands up. “Alright, let’s go.” 

Jon stills, ceasing his anxious fidgeting. “...Sorry?”

Martin motions for Jon to get up. “Come on. You’re… clearly in a weird space right now? And I don’t mind listening, if you just need to talk? But we’re not doing it here. So come on.”

Jon sits back and studies him with narrowed eyes. “Why?”

“Oh my god. Once again, Jon, I’m being _nice_. And I know we’re not- we didn’t get a great start. And I don’t _know_ you, or anything, not really.” He shrugs. “But I’ve physically collided with you enough times that it doesn’t feel too inappropriate to listen to you vent for awhile, at this point.”

Jon looks like he’s about to refuse, but then perhaps he’s just too worn down because his resolve seems to crumble almost immediately. “...Alright. Might as well.” He pushes himself to his feet, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Where to?”

“Well, there’s this one pub I like to go to when I’ve had a bad day-” He sees Jon wrinkle his nose at that. “What, don’t tell me you’re a snob about pubs, too? Jesus. It’s _cozy_ , okay? It’s warm and it has alcohol and those are both things you are sorely in need of tonight. Let’s go.”

He shoots Jon a stern look and begins walking, leaving no room for argument. He hears a long, exaggerated sigh, followed by the soft crunch of footsteps behind him, and allows himself the faintest smile.

* * *

The warmth of the pub is almost stifling at first, compared to the dropping temperatures outside. Jon shuffles in behind Martin, looking around with mild apprehension. He’s not a _snob_ about pubs. He’s just... not a fan. They’re typically crowded, noisy, and full of people with rich social lives - all things that, to put it bluntly, tend to make him feel like shit. However, this one is blessedly empty tonight; just a few small groups of friends scattered about and a couple people seated at the bar.

He follows Martin to a secluded booth back in a far corner and slides in behind the table. Martin waits til he’s seated, then says, “Well, I’ll go get us some drinks. Any preferences? Or- or do you want any food, or anything..?”

“...No, no food, thank you. Just, ah, whatever you normally have.” Jon isn’t really much of a drinker; never has been. Unless you count one brief ‘rebellious’ stint in his early university days and, well, he strongly prefers not to. It definitely confirmed that Jon wasn’t cut out for the party lifestyle, and so far has put him off of any real alcoholic indulgence for good.

Martin returns after a few moments with two mugs. Jon mutters a thank you and takes his, absently trailing a finger along the rim.

“So…” Martin says slowly, after a beat. “You were saying? Shitty boss, new job, missing predecessor, um, tape recorders…?”

Ah, right. They were doing _that_. Talking, that is. Lovely. Jon waves him off. “It’s- it’s stupid, Martin. We don’t have to do this. I don’t even know why I let you talk me into-”

“ _Jon_.”

_Fine_. Fine. “...I’m just- I don’t know what to do. I’ve only been at the job for a week and I’m already overwhelmed.” He takes a sip of his beer, grimaces, then takes another.

“And then there’s... something else. Some of the statements, when I record them, I get this feeling. Like they’re- like they’re reading me back. Or _something_ is. It’s like eyes staring down the back of my neck.”

He scoffs at himself, and continues bitterly, “Which I know is _stupid_. I’m exhausted and letting my imagination get the best of me. It’s almost worse than having - whatever the hell it is - be real, honestly; that I’m apparently just that much of a superstitious idiot.” He slumps forward in his seat, resting his head in his hands.

“...You were right, you know. When we had our- when we met, what you said. Most of the so-called ‘statements’ that come in are utter nonsense, if not all of them. Which is why it’s so frustrating that it’s getting to me!”

He winces at himself and looks around, having raised his voice quite a bit. Not to mention that he’d said a whole lot more than he’d ever intended to say to someone who’s barely an acquaintance. He risks a glance at Martin, and finds the man just. Watching him. Fingers loosely laced around his drink, a thoughtful expression settled around the edges of his eyes.

Jon feels unnerved. “...What?”

Martin straightens up. “Oh! Nothing, sorry. Just listening. And thinking that this explains a whole lot about you, actually.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Jon isn’t sure if he should feel put out.

Martin is quiet for a moment, seeming to think. “Just that… you’re not as much of a dick as I thought, maybe? Well, no, that’s not it, you’re still definitely a dick,” he amends. “But you’re just as much of a dick to yourself as you are to everyone else, so. It’s different somehow.”

Now Jon is even less sure whether he should be offended. He’s leaning towards yes. “...Good to know,” he says, finally, dryly.

Martin’s face flushes just a bit and he takes a long swig of his beer. He sets his mug down with a sheepish look.

“Right. Sorry. Back on topic.” He clears his throat, then: “So. That all sounds… really spooky? Oh don’t make that face, what’s wrong with ‘ _spooky_ ’? God, you’re so- anyway. That sounds _unsettling_. And like a nightmare, really, even setting aside all the sp- scary stuff. I can, um. I can see why you’re having a hard time. I’m sorry. I hope it gets easier.”

Jon looks away and doesn’t respond; Martin is giving him such a look right now - so sincere and clearly trying to be understanding and present and _helpful,_ and it’s not that Jon doesn’t appreciate it. It’s that he isn’t quite sure how.

They sit quietly after that, occasionally sipping at their drinks, looking around the pub, watching the other patrons slowly filter out into the night. The silence is a little awkward, Jon thinks, but only very little. Nowhere near as awkward as he’d have expected, considering. Certainly not as much as the _last time_ they’d sat together at a table in silence. Jon cringes at the memory.

“What about Georgie?”

The question startles Jon back to the present. “What?”

Martin tilts his head, looking at him. “Georgie. I chatted with her today and she mentioned that she hadn’t seen much of you lately?.. You two being so close, I figured you’d be talking to her about this stuff.” When Jon doesn’t answer immediately, he quickly adds, “If- if it’s none of my business, or you’d rather not get into it-”

Jon shakes his head, stopping him. “No, no, it’s fine. It’s alright, I…” He looks down at the table, fidgeting with his hands, considering his response. “Georgie… doesn’t know I’ve taken the job. She _strongly_ discouraged it, on the grounds that I am not qualified in the slightest and she doesn’t trust Elias, so…” He presses his lips together, thinking. “I don’t want to worry her. And I’d like to avoid the lecture for as long as possible.”

Martin is staring at him now, a look that - if Jon had to guess - is probably baffled disapproval, on his face. “So- so you’re… what? Just not going to tell her? You’re just going to hide an entire career change from who I presume is your closest friend? A career change that is stressing you out enough that you’re chain-smoking on park benches all night and venting to strangers in pubs that you hate. Instead of talking to your _friend_.”

Jon feels his face go hot at that. “Well when you go and put it like _that_ …” he mutters.

Martin laughs quietly, warm and genuine. “God- I’m learning so much about you,” he repeats. “It’s all making so much sense.”

“That doesn’t sound any less offensive the second time, you know,” Jon grumbles peevishly.

But he catches himself smiling back despite himself, and honestly feels a lot lighter than he has all week. _Amazing what actually talking to another human being can do_ , supplies Georgie’s voice in his head, dryly. He feels a stab of guilt. Martin’s right; this is ridiculous. He’s being ridiculous. An unsurprising turn of events.

“Hey.” Martin’s voice breaks into his thoughts once again, sounding apologetic. “It’s getting really late? I hate to cut this short but I ought to be getting home. Work tomorrow, and all. And you should too, probably?”

“Ah, right. Of course.” Jon takes out his wallet to pay Martin back for his drink, but Martin reaches out to stop him.

“It was just one beer; it’s on me, okay?”

Jon starts to protest, but then, seeing the stubborn insistence behind Martin’s eyes, he chooses to pick his battles wisely and puts his wallet away, nodding his thanks. “You know,” he says, “this ended in a lot less bloodshed than I would have thought.”

Martin shrugs. “We agreed to start over, didn’t we? Besides, I think those three months of space helped me to finally cool off. Just a little.”

“I assumed it was the catharsis of running me over in the supermarket,” Jon says with a wry smile. Then, more stiffly, “Well. Thank you, Martin. For.” He waves his hand meaning _everything. All of this. It was… kind of nice._ He stands to leave.

“You’re alright though?” Martin is standing too, fixing him with _that look_ again, like he really cares about the answer. Jon shifts uncomfortably.

“Yes, I’m fine. I... think this actually might have helped. Talking.”

And Jon isn’t looking at Martin, but he can hear the smile in his voice when he answers, “Great! Glad I could help, then.”

They both make their way for the door, pausing just outside. Jon decides to say goodbye before it can get uncomfortable. “Alright, well-” At the same moment Martin is saying “So I guess-”

They both stop abruptly, waiting for the other to speak. Martin laughs and motions for Jon to continue.

“Ah, I was saying,” Jon tugs his coat closer about him. “I was just saying I’ll be going now.”

Martin smiles. “Oh! Yeah, yeah me too. Good luck. With the job and your weird boss and all. Take care of yourself out there.”

“Thank you. Goodnight, Martin.” Jon gives a stiff, cursory wave and turns away.

Behind him, Martin’s voice is still warm and leaves an odd feeling blooming in Jon's chest when he says “Goodnight, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pesky, aren't they, those Odd Feelings. Thank you as always for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! :) Find me at [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	6. Chapter 6

“You going to tell me why you’ve been avoiding me?”

Georgie is standing in the doorway of Jon’s flat, hands on her hips, eyebrows raised. Awaiting an answer. A rather intimidating picture.

Jon freezes, put on the spot. “I- I haven’t been _avoiding_ you, Georgie, I-”

She takes out her phone, scrolling through their messages. “‘Sorry, can’t make it tonight. Not feeling well.’ ‘Can’t come over, working late.’ ‘Raincheck? Something’s come up.’ ‘Sorry I didn’t call; work again.’ ‘Sorry I didn’t call; got busy.’ “I’m sorry about movie night. Make it up to you?’ ‘Sor-”

“Okay, okay! Point taken! I-” Jon steps aside to allow her in. “- _may_ have been avoiding you a little. But I swear I was going to call you today.”

She steps inside and then turns to him as he shuts the door, looking doubtful. “You know I hate when you shut yourself away like this. We’re friends. Whatever the hell is wrong, just _talk_ to me.”

Jon looks away, contrite. “Georgie, I’m sorry. It was nothing, really. It was stupid, and there’s no reason at all that I shouldn’t have told you-”

“Then _out with it_ , Jon.”

She follows him into the kitchen, where he’d been in the process of washing the few dishes that had accumulated there, when he’d heard her insistent knocking. He takes a seat at the table and begins absently rifling through a stack of junk mail.

“I took the archives job.”

“You- Oh.” She blinks at him, and seems to be waiting for the rest. When nothing else is forthcoming, she ventures, “Is… that it?”

“...Yes?”

Georgie plants her hands across from him on the table, studying his face, clearly unconvinced. “You avoided me for a week. Because you didn’t want to tell me you got a new job?”

“Well, yes. If I remember correctly, it was a job you were very adamantly against me taking.” He feels defensive now, and a little stupid. “Besides," he huffs, "I didn’t want you fretting over me.”

She pulls out a chair and takes a seat, still studying him. “Jon…” she begins carefully. “...Yeah, I think it’s a bad idea, and I think Elias was weird about it and I don’t trust his intentions. No idea what they could be, but I know they’re shady as hell.” She laughs, shaking her head. “But that’s hardly a reason to sneak around and hide from your best friend.”

“My only friend,” he mutters.

“All the more reason,” she says sternly. “Look, are you sure that this is all? What did you think I’d fret about?” Her eyes go wide at a sudden thought. “Oh god, did Elias do something? Did he threaten you?”

Jon frowns at her. “What? Did Elias- no! I just- I’ll admit, I do feel a little overwhelmed. It’s… a lot. I’m in way over my head, more so than I anticipated.” He runs a hand through his hair with a tired sigh.

“And it’s making me- it’s getting to me. The statements. The archives. You know I fully believe that most of the stories that come in are absurd. And they are. But…” He trails off, frustrated.

Georgie looks at him curiously. “But what?” she prompts. “What is it?”

“I’m just tired, Georgie. And I shouldn’t have tried to hide any of this; that was stupid of me. I’m not thinking clearly this week.”

She reaches across the table and takes his hand. “You put too much pressure on yourself, Jon Sims. I know it’s just who you are, so I won’t get on you about that. But promise me you’ll try to give yourself a break now and then?”

When he nods, reluctantly, after a long moment, she squeezes his hand once and then stands up. “Good. I forgive you for being an idiot then. You eat lunch yet?”

They end up agreeing to order takeout, and pass most of the afternoon in companionable silence. After they eat, Jon brings out a stack of statements he’d brought from work. Georgie protests immediately - “ _What did we just say about taking a break?_ ” - but concedes after he argues that he knows she’s going to work on her podcast, so why can’t he try to get something productive done in the comfort of his own home? And so he sets about examining the dates and contents and trying to use them to refine the filing system he’s experimenting with. Georgie does, in fact, take her laptop and headphones out of her bag and begins editing the next What the Ghost episode.

Jon would have thought that he’d find doing anything to do with the archives job stressful right now, but to his surprise he finds himself actually feeling relaxed and almost enjoying the moment. It’s nice, being able to do this. To just sit quietly with someone and each get lost in your own activities, without it being uncomfortable or feeling like anyone is intruding. With no need to fill the silence.

It’s a rare thing. Or so he supposes. Personally, he’s never actually experienced it with anyone but Georgie; though that goes for most of the positive aspects of human interaction. Unbidden, the image of Martin Blackwood sitting across from him in the pub appears in his mind. Laughing, but not unkindly. “ _I’m learning so much about you_ ”. Such a stark change from all of their previous interactions. As if Martin - well, not quite understood; it would take far more than a brief conversation in a pub, for that. But it was as if he _could_ understand, and that it made all the difference.

That last silence that had fallen between them last night had been of that same comfortable sort, too.

Jon tenses immediately, alarmed and deeply annoyed at himself for… whatever the hell these thoughts are. He certainly isn’t going to start thinking of Martin as- a _friend_ , or even a potential one. Just like before when he was irritated over Martin’s animosity, the man is still a practical stranger. What he’s feeling is clearly relief at the shift in attitude, he reasons; the knowledge that if the universe does insist on throwing them together, at least he won’t have to change his route to work or his shopping habits.

Besides, they have nothing in common, nothing to talk about when Jon isn’t desperately rambling on like an idiot. Their disaster of a blind date proved that much; even if Jon hadn’t failed miserably on his part, that still wouldn’t have changed the fact that they’re simply incompatible.

_Georgie was a stranger once, too_ , his mind very unhelpfully supplies. _And how much did you two really have in common, on the surface_?

“I can hear you thinking.”

Jon is wrenched out of his thoughts and looks up quizzically, not following. “What?”

Georgie is still sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall, watching him. Her mouth quirks in an amused half smile. “Plus, you’ve been smiling and scowling to yourself in turns for the past several minutes. And I know it’s not whatever is in that archives bullshit, because I haven’t heard a single page flip for at least half and hour.”

“Thank you for the observation, Mr Holmes,” Jon mutters dryly.

“Oh, come on. What’s up? You owe me.”

Jon releases a harsh breath, feeling very put upon, but says at length, “...I met Martin again last night.”

Georgie looks surprised. “Oh? I thought you’d quit running into him a while ago.”

Jon scoffs. “You make it sound like something I had any control over. ...Wait. Do you- Did you think I was doing it _on purpose_?”

Georgie gets very suddenly distracted by something on her laptop and doesn’t answer.

“Georgie!”

She closes her laptop and sets it aside. “You were _weird_ about the guy, okay? No offense. I promise it just barely crossed my mind once or twice. But you can be- obsessive, you know? And you have to admit, it was odd. It looked odd.”

Jon presses his lips together unhappily. “...I guess. Yes, alright, it did. But if anything, you should be accusing _him_ , the way he appeared next to me on a park bench in the dark.”

Georgie narrows her eyes at him. “What were you doing on a park bench? At night? As cold as it’s been- wait, are you smoking again?”

“That’s not the point!” he cuts in. “As I was _saying_ , I met Martin again last night. And, I don’t know. It was different. He was-” Jon looks down at the papers on his lap, shuffles and straightens them, “ -not entirely unpleasant to be around.”

“Thought he hated you?” Georgie gets up to join him on the couch, interested. “Well then, what happened? What was ‘not entirely unpleasant’ about it?”

Jon tilts his head, thinking. “Nothing to speak of, really. I mean, he judged me for not telling you about my new job. Harassed me into visiting a pub with him. I complained about work, and he sympathized and mocked me in turns and bought me a drink.”

To his horror, Georgie practically beams at him. “It looks like you’re making a friend! It’s about time!”

“I am _not_ ,” Jon shoots back immediately. “I barely know the man. I had a moment of weakness and vented to a stranger, and he was kind enough to oblige me. Even when he hated me, he still insisted that he help me pick up my groceries that time. You know him, he’s one of those people; probably desperate to please everyone. It’s meaningless.”

Georgie’s smile vanishes as she stares at him for a long moment, looking, Jon thinks, deeply unimpressed. She seems like she’s about to argue, but opts instead to just pat his knee and says, “I love you, Jon. God help me.”

He turns back to his work, pretending not to notice her exasperation. “I love you too, Georgie.”

* * *

_Real London Hauntings_ ; _Ghosts of Great Britain_ ; _A Comprehensive Guide to Ghost Sightings in the UK_ ; _Flowery Prose: A Collection of Poetry Inspired by the Beauty and Magic of Gardens_.

Martin stacks his haul on the library's front desk and checks his phone. He has one text from Melanie - _"You still coming later?"_ He types back a quick confirmation - but otherwise all is quiet. He’s glad; it’s been a hectic week at work and he’s already agreed to go meet up with everyone for drinks later tonight, so he’s looking forward to spending the day til then relaxing.

After checking out his books, he stops by his favorite cafe for their specialty hot chocolate and heads to a nearby park to enjoy the fresh air. It’s cool out, but the sun is shining for once and he’s dressed warmly enough and if he spends another day shut up indoors he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

He finds a bench in a relatively secluded spot under a cluster of trees - largely leafless though they may be; it’s about the aesthetic - and reaches for the poetry book. The ghost books are for work, and he absolutely refuses to read them on his day off. He flips the book open to a random page and starts reading the first poem he sees. It’s simple, and a bit corny, probably, though Martin admits he doesn’t know a whole lot about what makes a poem technically ‘good’.

He likes it, though; he finds he often likes some of the more amateur-seeming ones best. They feel real and honest. Just the product of someone feeling something, and in that moment pouring it out on a page without any real thought as to whether anyone would like it. He smiles wryly to himself: that might just be him projecting, of course.

After skimming through a few more, he takes out the pen and notebook he keeps on hand for when inspiration strikes him, and attempts to do some writing, himself.

_I wonder what sort of poetry Jon likes_. Martin's pens stops as the thought intrudes on him without warning. _Well,_ he reasons, _it is one of the only topics you almost had a conversation about, and you did just see him again._ He knows at least that Jon clearly doesn’t like Keats; he'd gleaned that much. He snorts, half annoyed, half amused, and rolls his eyes.

His thoughts wander to the other night; Jon sat across from him in the pub, talking openly, if haltingly, about his job, about his boss, about Georgie. Smiling in that self deprecating way when Martin had teased him. It was a completely different side to the man.

He huffs in quiet bemusement. The guy is a complete ass and almost definitely a train wreck waiting to happen, but Martin has to admit that there was something almost… endearing about him, the other night. Once he started letting the walls down a bit.

It’s that Martin even got to see that he _has_ walls; and he has a feeling that it’s not something many people do get to see. It was unexpected and oddly comfortable. Natural, even. Especially given their previous interactions.

_It was ten at night and he was having a breakdown_ , he reminds himself. _People open up in those circumstances. Doesn’t mean he would any other time and doesn’t mean you two should have anything else to do with one another._

...Does he want to? To have anything else to do with Jon Sims? If it had occurred to him at any other time before now, Martin would have laughed and given a resounding, emphatic, _hell no._ He doesn’t know quite why he feels that’s changed, now of all times. But he knows that he could use a friend outside of work, and he knows that the way Jon smiles like he’s trying his best not to and the way he scowls when you say something nice to him and the way Martin suspects that he almost got to see a glimpse of the real man behind all the pretension and posturing --

Well. Now that he thinks about it, he thinks he wouldn’t mind getting to know Jon Sims a bit better, if circumstances allowed, is all. He probably won’t, and no loss if he doesn’t, but...

On that note, Martin resumes his writing; the words flowing from his pen with renewed feeling.

* * *

“Martin! Over here!” Melanie calls out to him as soon as she spots him across the crowded room, motioning him over to where she and the rest of the Ghost Hunt crew are already well on their way past tipsy.

A couple of them slide over, allowing him to squeeze in on the bench next to them. Melanie crosses her arms over her chest and turns to face him, pretending to be annoyed. “Weren’t sure you were coming! Had better things to do than hang out with the likes of us?” This gets a chorus of mock-indignant ribbing from around the table.

Martin grins sheepishly. “Sorry guys, got caught up. What’d I miss?”

“Well-” Melanie takes a sip of her drink, then continues. “-Dave was just telling us about this really great haunt site up north-”

“Alleged,” Dave chimes in.

“Right, _alleged_ haunt site,” she amends. “Anyway, it’s practically unheard of outside of some local tales, but apparently a lot of extra spooky shit goes down. We’re going to check it out after we wrap up this month’s episode.”

Martin flops back against his seat with a groan. “Which means a ton of extra work for me, of course.”

“You’re welcome!” she says cheerfully. “You know, I’d think you’d enjoy these kind, you being a researcher. You get to do some real research. Dig deep, unearth secrets.”

“Which I _know_ you realize means ‘run all over the country on a wild goose chase and never actually confirm a thing.’”

Melanie grins. “Hey, that’s your area of expertise; I wouldn’t know. I’m just the boss.”

Terry, another crew member, has some doubtful words about that statement, and they begin bickering good-naturedly. Dave orders another round of drinks and slides one to Martin when they arrive.

Martin listens to his coworkers talk, gossip, bicker, and banter, joining in frequently enough and being dragged in when he doesn’t. He’s having a genuinely good time. He always does. He gets along well with his coworkers, and they always go out of their way to include him. But Martin knows he doesn’t _truly_ fit, not really.

Not through anyone’s fault; he’s the newest member by quite a wide margin, and as such he’s never quite managed to mesh with the group like those who had been there since nearer the beginning. It’s not that he feels unwelcome, not at all. And he feels no bitterness or regret; it’s just a fact, and one that he’s at peace with. They all get along well both professionally and otherwise, and he couldn’t ask for anything more.

But he has to admit, he does get a little lonely now and then, outside of work. It would be nice to have some friends who are unaffiliated with his job or anyone there, who spend time with him just for _him_. Somewhat annoyingly, Jon springs to mind again. Before he can shake the thought, as if on cue Melanie says:

“Hey, Martin. Whatever happened to that one asshole guy? The one you had the awful date with and then he stalked you or something?”

Martin looks up to find that everyone is staring at him now, intrigued and waiting. To his mortification, he feels his face flushing, and he laughs nervously. “Oh- oh! Him! Yeah, actually, um. He wasn’t stalking me, I mean as far as I know. He was just- it was weird. Anyway, I didn’t see him at all for a few months? Until the other night.”

“Wait, you mean there was another Asshole Guy Appearance and you didn’t tell me?” Melanie makes an offended sound. “Well come on, then, let’s roast him.”

Martin laughs again, holding his hands up, placating. “It literally just happened two nights ago. And no, actually he was… alright?” There’s a groan of disappointment around the table and Melanie raises an eyebrow at him.

“I’m sorry! But really,” he insists, “It was all pretty boring. He- he just complained about his job and we went our separate ways.” To Melanie, he adds “I promise to let you know if there are any more exciting developments.”

The conversation moves on after that, and Martin couldn’t be more glad. He’s not sure what it is, but something about their last meeting has him wanting to keep it to himself; to not open it up to be scrutinized. Or maybe he’d just rather not open _himself_ up to be scrutinized before he has a chance to parse out these new intrusive feelings.

He glances up again and notices Melanie watching him with an unreadable expression. Her brow creases and she looks like she’s about to say something, but then Terry links arms with her and begins talking loudly about something unrelated that had happened on a recent shoot, and the moment passes.

Martin lets it, gratefully, and recommits himself to enjoying his night. And he does.

And in the lulls in conversation, he idly wonders what Jon is doing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to come find me! Thank you as always for reading! :) Hope you enjoyed it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not important really, but I didn't realize until I was editing that this chapter only contains Martin's pov. Just the way it got chopped up when I was dividing it into chapters. The next one I think will be entirely Jon, and then it goes back to switching. Anyway. Tim and Sasha make a proper appearance in this one! Hope you enjoy the chapter!

It’s a week and a half later that Martin finds himself standing outside the front doors of the Magnus Institute.

No, he hasn’t taken up stalking Jon after all; it turns out one of the Ghost Hunt crew had given a statement a few years ago, and someone from the Institute had recently got in touch asking for some more information. Melanie had refused to deliver it herself on account of “that Jon Sims prick who works there” and since Martin had been the only other person present at the time, she’d asked him if he would mind going over there.

“ _Jon Sims_?” he had asked - well, practically squeaked, if he’s being honest. “You know him?”

Melanie had looked at him curiously. “ _You_ know him?”

Martin still hasn’t worked out exactly why he lied, but he’d said, “N-no, no not personally. But Georgie has talked about him some.”

Melanie made a disgusted noise. “Ugh, I don’t know what she sees in that guy. But consider yourself lucky; _total_ pretentious dick. Probably worse than your blind date stalker.”

It was at that point that Martin had begun to find the various apps on his phone incredibly fascinating.

Melanie placed an old manila folder on his lap and continued, “Sooo yeah, you would be doing me a huge favor if you’d take this down there sometime this week. Please?”

He had wanted to say no. He had _desperately_ wanted to say no, also coincidentally because of Jon Sims (he wonders idly if Jon gets that a lot -- probably). But since he felt oddly reluctant to let Melanie know that he knows Jon, much less _how_ he knows him, he couldn’t very well use the “Well I already turn up everywhere he goes completely by accident, so going to his actual workplace on purpose would be taking this way too far” excuse, and just flat out refusing without giving any real reason wouldn’t do either.  

So that’s why today Martin takes a deep, calming breath, brushes some errant cobwebs off the folder in his hands, and pulls open the heavy wooden doors to the Magus Institute.

The inside of the institute is… different… than Martin would have expected. At least from what he can see from where he stands in the foyer. It honestly just looks - and smells, sounds, feels - a lot like a modern library. Not that he’s sure _what_ he was expecting, exactly; maybe just something a bit more spooky? A little haunted? At least heavily outdated?

As he takes in his immediate surroundings, Martin becomes acutely aware that this is where Jon spends nearly every day - that he’s almost definitely here right this second.

“Sir? Can I help you?”

The light, friendly voice startles him, and he stifles a yelp and turns to see a woman sitting at what looks like a reception desk.

“Oh! Hi. Um.” Remembering why he’s here in the first place, Martin holds up the folder. “I have some, er- follow-up info on a statement? Or, statement-giver, I guess?” He laughs nervously. “It’s not mine, I don’t know, is there a desk where I can leave this, or?..”

Before she can reply, the front door swings open and a man saunters into the foyer, a takeout bag in one hand and a massive coffee in the other. The first thing Martin notices about him is, well, that he’s hot, simply put. The second thing he notices is the man noticing him.

He slows down, giving Martin a rather obvious once-over. A bright smile blooms on the man’s face. Martin squirms a bit, feeling both self conscious and a bit pleased - good to know he’s still got it, evidently - and to his great dismay, feels himself blushing. The man’s smile widens, bright and mischievous.

“Hi there,” he says, and his voice is smooth and warm, and now he’s approaching Martin, passing the takeout bag over to the hand holding the coffee. “You look nervous. First time?”

“S-sorry?”

“You’re here to give a statement, right? Got some spooky tales to tell.” The man waves his fingers as he says the word ‘spooky’, then holds out his hand. “Tim Stoker, by the way.”

Martin swallows and forces himself to maintain eye contact with this handsome, smiling stranger as he shakes his hand. “Oh, no, actually. I’m here to deliver, um. This.” He indicates the folder. “Some info on someone who gave a statement here..?”

The man - Tim Stoker - raises his eyebrows in sudden understanding. “Ah! Right, the Callahan statement? That should go straight to Jon.”

“Jon?” And damn it, that squeak is back in his voice.

Tim doesn’t seem to notice. “Yeah, big boss man. Or my boss at least.” He flashes another bright smile. “Come on, I’ll take you to him.”

Before Martin can protest, Tim has sent another one of those smiles and a friendly mock salute to the receptionist and is making for a door at the other end of the room. He pulls it open and gestures with a flourish to Martin. “After you, mister…?”

Martin sighs internally, resigning himself to his fate, and follows after him. “Right, sorry about that. Blackwood. Martin Blackwood.”

Tim leads him through a cluttered office floor, several scattered desks piled high with books, files, and folders, with long rows of shelves and filing cabinets off to the far side of the space.

“Research,” Tim informs him, seeing Martin looking around. “This is where I used to work, before I joined Jon down in the dungeon. Still spend most of my time up here anyway; don’t know why they even bothered moving me.” He stops abruptly and waves to someone across the room. “Hey, Sasha! Bagel run. Want one?”

A young woman’s face appears from behind a precariously overstuffed filing cabinet. “You’re a life saver, Tim Stoker.” She holds out her hands, and Tim takes a wrapped bagel from the takeout bag and tosses it to her in a wide arc. She leans out and swipes it out of the air with a grin.

“Thanks!” Her eyes fall on Martin. “Oh, hi. Are you here to give a statement?”

Tim answers for him. “He’s got those Callahan files you called about.”

Sasha slumps against the cabinet. “Oh thank god. I hope it’s something useful; Jon’s been running me ragged all week trying to find something new on that one.” She takes a bite of her bagel. “You know how he gets.”

Tim pretends to think. “Tyrannical, abrasive, domineering, generally unpleasant to work with, much less work _for_..?” He lists each quality off on is fingers.

Sasha laughs, but shoots him a reproachful look. “ _Fixated_.”

Tim snaps his fingers. “Ah, right, knew I was missing one. Well we’d best get to that, before you get any more ragged. This way, Mr Blackwood.”

“Be nice down there, Tim!” Sasha calls after him.

“Always am!” he calls back.

They wind their way around the perimeter of the research floor and through a dingy metal door at the far side, opening onto a flight of stairs. It’s cooler down here, Martin notes, and darker. Closer. The walls are a muddy grey-brown, and the fluorescent lights overhead are cold and dim and flickering.

“It’s ugly as hell, right?” Tim says lightly, as if reading his thoughts. “It’s almost like someone did it on purpose, like ‘Oh let’s make this as stereotypically creepy as possible.’ Doesn’t explain the lights, though. We can’t ever keep the bulbs working. Must be bad wiring.”

On cue, the lights go almost completely out for a split second, returning with a sharp buzzing sound. Martin jumps in alarm. “...Or ghosts,” Tim adds, with a wink.

They pass through an open, messy office floor and turn down a short hallway. All too soon, Tim stops them again outside an open doorway. “This is your stop,” he says, and leans through the doorway, giving the door a sharp rap with his knuckles.

“Hey boss, you got a visitor!”

Martin hears a familiar terse voice from within reply, “I’ve told you there’s no need to call me that.” A shuffling of papers. “I’m not expecting any statements? I really don’t have time right now; tell them to make an appointment and c-”

“Not a statement, _boss_ ,” Tim interrupts pleasantly. “Someone from Ghost Hunt with information on Callahan.”

Martin realizes that he probably ought to step into the doorway about now. He does so and Jon’s eyes fall on him immediately, going wide and confused as soon as he registers what he’s seeing.

“Martin? What-” Martin could swear he sees Jon’s face turn a bit pink, though it’s hard to say in the dim light. Jon’s gaze flicks to Tim, then back to Martin, finally landing on the folder. He seems to gather himself and amends, stiffly, “Right, thank you. Come in.” He pushes aside a disordered stack of papers and distractedly motions Martin forward.

Tim glances between them, then says, slowly, “...Well, I’ll leave the two of you to it. Give me a shout if you need anything.” And then, after casting another glance at Martin, he turns and heads back down the hall.

Martin tries to call after him, “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be-” But Tim is already disappearing around the corner. “...Long,” he finishes. He turns back and faces Jon. “So. Yeah. Sorry about this,” he begins, feeling awkward, “I know it doesn’t help my case on the stalking front.”

Jon’s mouth quirks slightly. “What are you doing here, anyway?” Before Martin can reply, he adds, gesturing at the folder, “No, I mean, I gathered - I just wasn’t expecting you. You, specifically.”

“Yeah, no me either.” Martin clears his throat uncomfortably. “Melanie didn’t want to come, and I was the only one there for her to ask, so. She _really_ hates you, you know.”

Jon snorts. “I may have gathered that. The feeling is mutual.” Then, “But thank you. For bringing the, um.”

It occurs to Martin that he probably ought to give him The Um in question. He crosses the short remainder of the room and hands the folder to Jon, who opens it eagerly and begins flipping through the pages inside, eyes scanning them intently, muttering to himself.

“No, no, this doesn’t- wait. Alright, I see, right. This might just be what-”

For all intents and purposes, he seems to have forgotten that Martin is even there in the pursuit of whatever information he’s hoping to find. Martin doesn’t want to admit that he finds it oddly charming - it’s _rude_ \- but… Endearing. That word again.

He waits a moment, and upon receiving no further acknowledgement, he hesitantly speaks up: “So… I guess I’ll be going?” He’s already backing away from the desk.

Jon looks up sharply, irritation flashing briefly over his features, clearly annoyed at being interrupted. His expression quickly softens, though - as soft as Martin has seen him, at least - and he says, “Thank you, Martin. Really. I’ve been having the worst time with this one and I can’t move on until I get it figured out. Lifelong curse.”

He sets the folder down, closes his eyes and massages his temples, and Martin suddenly notices how _tired_ Jon looks.

He asks, “How  - how’s it going? The job, I mean. Aside from this in particular, I guess. I hope whatever is in there helps?”

Jon rests his head in his hands. “It’s been awful, if I’m being honest.” He sighs loudly, then continues, “There are so many loose ends, so many statements that never got properly catalogued - or at least not in a way that is remotely comprehensible. Our equipment is still acting up, and I’m still- my imagination is still as active as ever.” He straightens back up, glaring at the folder on his desk.

“This _should_ help, though. At least it’ll be one less thing on my mind. Thank you again, for dropping it off.”

Jon turns his eyes back to the pages in front of him and becomes immediately immersed again. Martin takes the opportunity to look at him properly; taking in his rumpled clothes, his disheveled hair and far-too-dark shadows under his eyes. He feels a stab of concern. Martin had already suspected that self care isn’t one of Jon’s top priorities, and it’s beginning to show. He’s struck by a sudden impulse.

“Hey,” he ventures. “Want to go get lunch?”

Jon blinks up at him, taken aback. “...Pardon?”

“Lunch? You know, when people eat food, usually around midday? You look like you could use a break. Like you’ve never actually taken one, really.”

Jon looks affronted. “I’m _busy_ , and I’m _fine_ , thank you, Martin.”

“Mhmm. Very convincing. Come on, get your coat.”

“Is this really the best use can you find for your time?” Jon asks irritably. “Dragging me around London against my will?”

“Pretty much?” Martin grins. “Look, you don’t _have to_ , obviously not, but I would really like for you to come with me? It would be a weight off my conscience if I knew I got you out of here for a little while.”

Jon glares at him. “This is the pub incident all over again. Are you aware that you’re pushy, Martin Blackwood?”

Martin shrugs. “I like ‘persuasive’, myself.”

Jon stares him down for a long, tense moment. Martin doesn’t waver.

“...Fine. _Fine,_ but only to get you out of here so I can get back to work.” Jon stands up slowly, stretching, several disconcertingly loud cracks sounding from his joints. He grabs his coat and shrugs into it sullenly. “Lead the way, I suppose, your majesty,” he grumbles.

Martin is still smiling to himself a little when they cross the main floor of the archives and make for the stairwell, Jon following grumpily behind him, looking for all the world like a man on his way to a tooth extraction rather than a lunch break.

They pass Tim, who is perched on the edge of Sasha’s desk, staring at them with undisguised curiosity and surprise. He leans towards Sasha with a smirk and whispers something; she appears to scold him, but glances at the duo with a curious expression of her own. Martin feels deeply self conscious, and speeds up the staircase as quickly as he dares.

Just as he and Jon are halfway across the research floor - and thus to freedom - someone steps into their path from a doorway off to the side. Martin stops short so not to collide with the person - an older man in business attire and a hideous tie.

“Jon, good to see you out of your office.” The man is smiling, all polite professionalism, but his eyes are cool and calculating and Martin takes an instant dislike to him.

Before Jon can reply, the man turns his pasted-on, closed-lipped smile on Martin. He extends his hand. “Hello, Mr Blackwood. Elias Bouchard, head of the institute. Kind of you to visit us today.”

So this is Jon’s shitty boss. Martin takes the proffered hand automatically, though part of him wants to snub him. “Wait, sorry- how do you know my name?..”

Elias Bouchard’s handshake is as crisp and professional as the rest of him. “Oh, my apologies; I overheard Tim Stoker mention it when you first arrived.” He steps back and looks between the two of them. “Well, I won’t keep you. Far be it from me to impede one of Jon’s rare lunch breaks. Take care of my archivist, Mr Blackwood.”

Jon mutters something vague and irritable, and Elias nods to them and moves to step past them. As he does, he makes eye contact with Martin again, with a look that can only be described as penetrating. Martin can’t be sure; but he could swear that the mask of formal friendliness slips into something much colder for just a half second.

Martin looks back over his shoulder as they continue on. “That was…”

“Yes.” Jon is walking noticeably faster now and Martin turns back to keep up. “Sorry about him. He’s always… like that.”

“Ugh. No wonder Georgie doesn’t want you working here.”

Jon hums vaguely in response and keeps walking, entering the foyer.

Martin is glad to be getting out of here; he’s certain he still feels those cold eyes on him, dissecting him, but he finds he’s too afraid to look back and check. Forget what he thought when he first arrived; this place definitely gives him the creeps.

Instead, he turns his attention back to Jon, who is already halfway out the front door. He turns back to Martin, frowning.

“Well?” he asks snappishly. “This was your idea. Are you coming?” He turns and walks out the door without waiting for an answer.

Martin catches the door before it shuts and mutters under his breath. “ _Dick._ ” But he’s smiling again, the unease of a moment ago all but forgotten as he follows Jon outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for reading! :) Find me at [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	8. Chapter 8

Jon takes a moment to gather himself once he’s stepped through the front door of the institute.

Seeing Martin Blackwood standing in the doorway of his office was really… something. He tries to sift through the surge of emotions he felt upon seeing him there; confused, mostly. Surprised, definitely. A touch alarmed. But underneath it all, he can’t deny that he felt confusingly, surprisingly, alarmingly _pleased_.

...To be fair, Tim _had_ just informed him that Martin came bearing desperately sought-after information, so that colored his reaction without a doubt. If Tim had told him that Martin had brought- spiders with him, for example, he would have felt an entirely different set of emotions altogether.

He’s not even going to attempt to unpack his agreement to go to lunch. To let Martin interrupt him in the middle of a busy and stressful workday to drag him to some restaurant. _Tim is going to have so much fun with this_ , he thinks sourly. And then of course Elias had to materialize at the most inconvenient moment and be... well, Elias.

At any rate it’s a lot, and it’s left Jon with a bad case of nerves as he stands on the institute steps, watching Martin stroll past him towards the street and stop to type something into his phone. Looking up directions, from the looks of it.

Jon joins him, peering at the screen. “So where are we going?” he asks, impatient. “And are we going soon?”

Martin taps at his phone a couple more times without looking up. “The Magnus Institute will still be here when you get back, I promise.” Finally he slips his phone back into his pocket and gives Jon a small smile.

“Alright, come on. The place I had in mind isn't that far from here, turns out? Not too far to walk. Besides, you look like you could use the fresh air.”

Jon gives him a hard look in return. “Is this you being ‘persuasive’ again?”

Martin winces. “Sorry,” he says ruefully. “Just thought since I was the one that dragged you out here, it’d be polite to have something planned.” He glances down the street. “Did you have somewhere in mind? Or- or would you rather take a cab, at least?”

Jon huffs, half annoyed, half amused. “No, this is fine. Walking is fine.”

Martin’s smile returns, relieved. “Great! Let’s get going.”

And so they start walking. Mostly in silence, with Martin making the occasional remark about something he sees or a thought that occurs to him - “It feels like we might get an early spring this year” - and Jon replying appropriately. “Quite.”

The nerves haven’t entirely subsided, but they’ve calmed enough for Jon to direct them to the pile of statements waiting for him on his desk. _What the hell was I thinking?_ he wonders, anxiety rising. He really doesn’t have any business leaving his office for such a frivolous reason. He considers telling Martin that he’s changed his mind and needs to go back. Yes, he’ll have to. Martin will give him that _look,_ that one that says he’s disappointed, not _by_ Jon so much as disappointed _in him_ , but he’ll understand-

“-okay with you?”

And Martin seems to have been speaking. He’s looking at him expectantly now, and Jon realizes they’ve stopped walking.  

“Oh. Sorry. I was- what were you saying? Are we here?” He looks up at the front of the building they’ve stopped at; a small pizzeria.

“I was just asking if pizza was okay,” Martin tells him. “I kind of assumed most everyone likes pizza, but if not, they have pasta and salad and some other stuff, too, I think?”

So they’re doing this after all. Jon forces himself to focus. “N-no, no pizza is perfectly fine, ah- This is good. Let’s go.” He pushes past a bemused-looking Martin and heads inside.

Once they’re seated and have had their drink orders taken, Martin shoots him a curious glance over the menu and asks, “So… what were you thinking about out there?”

Jon picks up a menu of his own and deftly flips to the lunch section. “Work, for the most part. Specifically that I have an ungodly amount of it and really shouldn’t be here right now.” He looks up when he hears Martin make an amused sound. “Yes…?”

“Nothing.” Martin is half smiling, perusing the list of toppings. “It’s just pretty much what I thought you would say.”

“Well to be fair, that _is_ what you just unceremoniously dragged me away from.”

“True, true.”

Jon hesitates for a beat, then adds, “Still, I suppose there’s no _real_ harm in taking a break for once. It’ll be- nice, I think. Getting away from it all, physically, at least, if not mentally.”

Martin sets the menu down. “So you really don’t normally take breaks, is what I’m hearing?”

“I’ve told you multiple times how busy I am,” Jon mutters, peevish.  

Martin makes a placating gesture. “Hey, no judgement. Well, that’s a lie; a little judgement.”

Jon scowls and returns his attention to the menu. “This is what I get for trying to say ‘thank you’.”

He doesn’t look up, but he hears the laughter in Martin’s voice when he says, “ _You’re welcome_ , Jon.”

Martin decides on what he’s getting, Jon asks him a question about something he saw on the menu, and shortly after that, the server arrives with their drinks and takes their order.

They make pleasant enough small talk while they wait for their food, and while Jon normally finds that sort of thing tedious - he still does, really, but - with Martin, somehow, it’s not so bad. It’s all rather refreshingly normal, and Jon has to admit he could use some extra normalcy in his life right now.

He briefly wonders, too, what would have happened if his and Martin’s first meeting had gone this way. If he hadn’t gone out of his way to tank it and they had actually had something of a nice time.

_Probably nothing,_ he reminds himself. He knows himself, after all. Even if they’d both had a mutually enjoyable time, even if Martin had wanted to see him again, Jon knows that he would more than likely have made his excuses - or not even bothered with that - and ended things before they’d begun.

He looks at Martin seated across from him, looking genuinely content to be here.

“It’s a nice little place, isn’t it?” he’s saying, looking around appreciatively. “I stumbled on it early last year, but I hardly ever come out to this part of London.” He glances at Jon, something unbearably open in his expression. “Might have to start, though.”

Jon hums in response, unsure what to say to that.

Perhaps it’s for the best, Jon thinks, that things had turned out the way they did. That he hadn’t been given the chance to run away and now, through some bizarre string of coincidences, he’s here. He’s… startled, a bit, at the sudden warmth that spreads through his chest. He quickly tamps down the feeling. If that’s even what it was.

_Maybe I’m coming down with something._

“Sorry?”

And apparently he’d said that part out loud. Wonderful. “Just- just talking to myself.” He clears his throat and absently straightens the napkin holder. “So, what’s- what’s been going on with you?” he asks, redirecting both the conversation and his thoughts.

Martin looks pleased at being asked. “Oh! Well, work, mostly -” His expression morphs into nervousness and he asks, “- You’re not going to make it weird if I talk about my job, right?”

“Of course not!” Jon huffs irritably, refusing to acknowledge the legitimacy of the question.

“Just checking! So anyway, as I was saying: work, mostly. We put out a couple really cool episodes; great audience response! We got some viral moments, too, even. Tons of new followers, um. Yeah. It’s good. Feels good to know I helped make it happen, you know?” He stops and looks suddenly self conscious, but that still doesn’t quite dim the happy grin on his face.

Jon studies him, brow furrowed. Trying to understand. “You really enjoy it, then? The youtube… thing.” He grimaces. “I’m honestly not trying to belittle it.”

Martin waves him off, still looking a bit shy. “It’s fine, I know it can be hard to understand. To see it as a legitimate living? I was skeptical myself, at first, when Melanie offered me the job.” He shrugs. “But, yeah. Yeah I really do like it a lot. I’m interested in the supernatural anyway, like I’ve told you, and it’s satisfying. Fulfilling. Just being a part of something. Being depended on.”

Jon considers him. “That’s- good. Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He means it, and Martin apparently knows because the man instantly beams at him, and it’s so warm and _sincere_ that Jon has to look away.

The waiter arrives with their food - they’d opted to share a pizza; half mushroom and pepper for Jon, half chicken and black olives for Martin.

Once they’re settled again and have begun eating, Martin asks, “What about you? Do you like working at the Magnus Institute? I- I mean, not right now, of course, that’s a whole other- but, in general? Is it, um, fulfilling? Fun? Anything?”

The question catches Jon off guard, and he has to think about it far longer than he would have anticipated.

“...Yes and no, I suppose? I certainly enjoyed it at first. Research suited me, and it was... exciting. Getting to learn so much. It was satisfying, finding answers.”

Martin tilts his head. “And now?”

“Now…?” Jon frowns and takes a sip of his drink. “Now I’m tired. I haven’t even been there that long, but I’m tired. I can’t even fully blame the new position, though that’s an undeniable factor. Getting answers is still satisfying, but the increasing pressure to get them takes the joy out of it, most days.”

Martin looks thoughtful. “Where does all the pressure come from?” he asks. “From Elias? Or somewhere else? ...Yourself?”

Jon sighs. “That, I’m not sure if I can answer.” He takes a bite of his pizza.

“So... what about outside of work?” Martin presses. “Anything fun there? To help you relax, unwind? I know you said you read, but-”

“I did. I _did_ read,” Jon interrupts him. “Not so much these days, or at least not much that’s unrelated to the archives. I do have- movie nights and the like, with Georgie now and then, but that’s becoming more of a rarity.”

Martin straightens up and gives Jon a reproachful look. Or perhaps just concerned. “What, so..? That’s it? You literally don’t have any hobbies? Nothing recreational at all?”

Jon retorts, “How many times do I have to tell you I’m-”

“Busy, I know. I’m busy too, but I still make time to go out for drinks on Friday nights and take watercolor classes and write cheesy poetry in the park on nice afternoons so I don’t die of a heart attack by thirty.”

“Are you aware that this is the second time you’ve dragged me somewhere just to sit across from me and judge me?” Jon asks dryly.

“Alright, alright, backing off. You’re right. You’re a grown man. None of my business.” Martin shakes his head.

True to his word, Martin steers the conversation onto other topics. He shyly discusses his poetry a little and some of the poetry books he’s been reading for inspiration; pointedly mentioning Keats at one point. Jon remembers all too well what happened last time they went there, and does his best to remain polite.

Instead he pulls a face, and Martin laughs.

“Okay, really though,” Martin says. “What is your deal with Keats?” When Jon hesitates, he adds, “Not starting a fight, I promise. I’m curious where you’re coming from.”

Jon narrows his eyes, looking for a trap. “Well…” he takes a deep breath. “God, his work is just so _tedious_. Every line is a chore to get through and you’re exhausted by the time you finish the poem. If you _can_ finish it.”

“And no, it’s not that I just don’t understand it,” he adds. “I understand it just fine. I see what he was trying to do. I just think it’s terrible and he should have done anything else.”

He realizes that Martin is giggling, practically bubbling over with mirth.

“I’m glad to have amused you,” Jon grumbles, offended.

Martin bites his lip, suppressing more giggles. “I’m not making fun of you, I promise. I just- I guess I expected some deep, pretentious reason?”

“Believe it or not, Martin, I do often just have boring opinions like anyone else.” He's trying to keep being offended, but Martin's mirth is contagious and his words come out with much less bite than intended.

“Yeah,” Martin says, thoughtful and still smiling. “I guess you do.”

* * *

They’ve paid and left the restaurant and are both walking slowly back towards the institute. This was… good, actually. Better than expected. He wouldn’t mind doing it again. Of course, he instantly dismisses the thought. Sure, he had a decent time, and Martin didn’t seem to mind it terribly either, but it was a spontaneous one-off thing formed purely on chance. There’s no reason to assume Martin would want to do it again.

“So… we should do this again sometime,” Martin says.

_Oh._

Jon says as much. “Oh.” Followed by, “Should we?” _Brilliant, Jon_.

He looks at Martin, but Martin isn’t looking at him; instead opting to trace his fingers along the intricate edges of the wrought iron fence they’re strolling past.

“I mean, I’d like to? If you would? You already know my stance on you getting out of the office at regular intervals.” He peeks over at Jon, and adds, softly, “Besides, I had fun. And I- I could use someone to get me away from my desk too.”  

“Alright,” Jon says probably a bit too quickly, before he can talk himself out of it.

Martin looks fully at him now. “Oh? Really? You want to?”

“I said so, didn’t I?” Jon snaps, feeling uncomfortable. More gently, “This wasn’t- unpleasant. And we’ve proven multiple times now that we can be in the same room together without killing each other.”

The look Martin gives him is somewhere between pitying and horrified. “...Jon, you should _really_ set the bar higher, you know. That’s kind of heartbreaking.” Jon rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to retort but Martin hurriedly amends, “But, great! Great. Cool. Um, How about Thursday, then? Same time? I can meet you out here.”

They’ve reached the Institute now and are stopped at the bottom of the steps. Jon nods. “That should work. I’ll see you then, I suppose?”

Martin grins at him. “Yeah! I mean, yeah, I’ll be here unless something comes up. Oh! In case it does, for either of us--” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a small notepad and pen. He writes something down and tears off the page, handing it to Jon. “Phone number. Be sure to text me so I have yours, too.”

After that they part ways, and Jon heads up the steps and through the front doors of the institute, thoughtfully sliding the small scrap of paper between his fingers. He’s barely set foot in the archives before Tim waylays him, practically jumping in front him.

“Hold on, now, boss,” Tim begins, looking mischievous. “Just where have you been with the mysterious Mr Blackwood?”

Jon glares and makes to move around him. “If you must know, Tim, I went to lunch. People do that; you may have heard.”

Tim moves in front of him again. “With this Martin Blackwood? When Sasha and I have been trying to get you to come out with us for years?”

Jon moves more forcefully around him this time, successfully getting past. “If you’ll excuse me, some of us here actually want to do our jobs.”

He hears Tim scoff behind him, following. “Oh come on, Jon, you can’t blame me for being curious! You two obviously know each other, and you don’t know _anyone_. Old friend? Long lost ex? Awkward clingy hookup?”

In place of an answer, Jon shuts the door to his office with a bit more force than strictly required. Once he’s back at his desk and certain Tim isn’t going to come in after him, he looks at the little scrap of paper again, and then enters the number into his phone. He starts to put his phone away, then hesitates. Finally he opens up a message and types “ _See you Thursday_.”

And erases it. “ _It was nice--”_

Erase. “ _Thanks for--_ ”  “ _This is Jon. That wasn’t terrible--_ ” _“This is my number--”_

Finally, feeling foolish, he settles on “ _Thursday._ ” and hits send, shoving his phone back in his pocket before he can waste any more time.

He’s just picked up the Callahan file and flipped it open when his phone buzzes. Apprehensive, he takes it back out and opens the message. It’s from Martin, of course, and simply reads, “ _Thursday :)_ ”.

Georgie’s words echo in his mind. _It looks like you’re making a friend!_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two are going to be the death of me. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you for reading as always and if you want, you can find me at [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter ended up twice as long as the usual chapters. It was originally supposed to be two, but I couldn't find a satisfactory place to split it up. So. A lot goes on here! Hopefully it's not too much.

The next few weeks go by surprisingly well, considering. Nothing has changed, really, but Jon has been finding himself in an unusually pleasant mood. Again, considering. He can’t remember the last time he was in a _good_ mood, strictly speaking, but things have been… better.

He and Martin kept their Thursday lunch date, and then made another one, and another, and _another,_ and have yet another planned for next week. They mostly talked about work, at first, though Martin has begun to talk more about his poetry, in shy starts and stops. He also asks Jon lots of questions; questions about his friendship with Georgie, about his life growing up, about his favorite everything.

Jon doesn’t mind, not really. But he’s never been good at talking about himself, letting himself be the focal point, and generally tries to redirect the conversation as quickly as possible. He still tries to make himself answer at least minimally, even if most of the questions are ones it’s never occurred to him to have an answer to. He wasn’t even aware until last week that he _had_ a favorite color, for example. Apparently it’s yellow. Who knew?

He feels like he’s even been fairly good at remembering to ask Martin questions about himself. It helps that Martin consistently looks so surprised and pleased in a way that Jon simply isn’t used to seeing when he speaks to people. It’s a novelty, in its own way, and he always finds that he’d quite like to see it one more time.

(Martin’s favorite color is lilac, and he likes black tea with two sugars, and he takes art classes at a community center, and he grew up taking care of his sick mother, and he actually had applied for a job at the Magnus Institute shortly before getting an offer from Melanie and the Ghost Hunt crew.)

Jon hasn’t told Georgie about his lunch dates with Martin, for… reasons he hasn’t outright considered. There’s simply no need, honestly; he’s sure she doesn’t tell him every time _she_ has lunch with someone.

Georgie, of course, would probably tell him that he’s “Wanting to keep it to yourself so that when you decide you’re bound to screw it up, it’ll be easier to run away and pretend it never happened.”

He glares at his desk. What does she know? Nothing. He’s not telling her.

Yet.

There's a soft knock at his open door and he looks up to see Sasha standing there with her coat and bag.

"Hey," she says, smiling. "Tim and I are going out with a couple of the library staff, and I wanted to see if you'd like to come along."

Oh. That’s the second time recently that they’ve tried to coax him into going out somewhere. He thought they’d given up on that ages ago. He hesitates, glancing at the stack of statements waiting on his desk.

"...No, thank you. I still have a lot of work I'd like to get through before I head home. Perhaps some other time.” Then, trying to be pleasant, he adds, “You, ah- you have fun, though."

Before she can reply, Tim calls out jovially, “Ask him if he’s got plans with his boyfriend!”

Sasha rolls her eyes fondly and shakes her head. Jon sputters indignantly.

“Sasha, please tell Tim that my personal life is _-_ ”

She quickly interrupts him. “Sorry! I’m not getting in the middle of this one. You’ll have to defend your own personal life.”

Tim’s voice again, theatrically pained: “ _Why am I not good enough, Jon? Are my eyes not dreamy enough?_ ”

Jon gives Sasha a flat look. She laughs and shoulders her bag. “I’ll get him out of here. Have a good night! Try not to stay too late. And maybe come out with us sometime, yeah? I think Tim misses you.”

Tim calls something else out that Jon feels lucky to not have caught, and Sasha gives a wave and hurries back down the hall.

Jon pauses a moment; listens to them chatting and laughing and finally leaving. He really does have far too much to do, and if he went out now he’d just drag the mood down.

Next time.

Pushing away all other thought, he flips through the statements with intent. When he finally finds the one he's looking for, he pulls the little tape recorder closer and presses play.

* * *

It's late when Jon finally looks up from his desk, eyes gritty and throat burning. The clock reads nearly nine.

He considers just spending the night; not much point in making the journey home only to have to be up again and coming right back in a few hours' time. But the last time he did that, Elias had stepped into his office the next day and offhandedly made it very clear that he knew about it, and while he hadn't expressly forbade it - in fact, he’d seemed oddly… pleased? But no, that’s ridiculous - something about the man simply _knowing_ made Jon feel uncomfortable doing it too often.

So he pushes his chair back and stands up stiffly, his knees and spine cracking loudly in the silence of the empty building. He massages his aching neck and then gathers up his things. His phone buzzes in his hand and he finds two new text notifications; one from Georgie at 5:43pm, and one from Martin about an hour after.

The one from Georgie is just a response to a question he'd asked earlier about their weekend plans - she'd confirmed that they are, in fact, still on for that documentary he's been wanting to check out.

The text from Martin is a picture of a book of John Keats poems, with the caption " _Saw this and thought of you. Picked you up a copy._ "

Jon attempts to glare at his screen, but it’s not very effective when he’s also trying to bite back the smile wanting to take over his face.

He types back a response, _“How thoughtful. I’m afraid I don’t have a fireplace to burn it in, though.”_

He's just about to shove his phone into his pocket when the reply comes. It's a middle finger emoji. Jon snorts. The battle against the smile has been lost.

He’s just got off the tube when he receives another text from Martin: “ _Hey, are you doing anything this weekend?”_

Jon regards the message curiously. “ _I’m taking some work home and going to Georgie’s Saturday evening. Why?”_

It’s nearly ten minutes before the reply comes. “ _I was wondering if you’d like to go do something. Hang out. If you’re too busy though that’s fine!”_

Jon blinks at his screen in surprise and then starts to turn him down automatically, his age-old “Too much work to do” excuse springing immediately to his fingertips. Then he remembers the almost-regret he’d felt when he turned down Sasha’s invitation earlier, and that he _has_ been quite enjoying Martin’s company.

It might be nice to get out of his flat for awhile. Or so Martin and Georgie keep telling him. So before he can talk himself out of it, he erases the message and instead types out, “ _I’ll be free all day Sunday, if that’s good for you._ ”

This time, the response comes almost immediately. “ _Sunday’s great! :) I thought we could do lunch and then walk around the city?”_

“ _That sounds fine._ ” Jon puts his phone away, thoughtful. There’s that damned smile again.

He’s been doing that a lot lately.

* * *

Georgie stifles a yawn and pulls out her phone, presumably checking the time. Jon glances over to where she’s sprawled on the couch beside him, legs draped comfortably across his lap; The Admiral draped comfortably across _her_.

“Time to call it a night?” he asks.

She smiles apologetically. “It _is_ after midnight, and that guy I’m interviewing is heading back to Leeds tomorrow.”

Jon nods agreeably. “I had no idea this documentary would run so long.” He grabs the remote and switches of the tv.

“Finish it up tomorrow?” Georgie asks, plopping The Admiral onto the floor and standing to stretch her legs. The Admiral, offended at having been so rudely displaced, stalks across the room and hops onto the window sill.

“Oh. I, ah-” Jon hesitates. “I have plans, actually.”

Georgie regards him dubiously. “By ‘plans’ do you mean ‘sitting in your flat reading statements all day’? Because first of all, you’re supposed to be giving yourself breaks, and second of all: that’s getting kind of creepy, Jon.”

“It’s not- it’s my _job_ ,” Jon says, indignant, “And besides, for your information, I’m-” He catches himself right on the brink of revealing too much. He taps his fingers on his knee, thinking fast. “I’m- doing something else,” he finally finishes, lamely. Great save.

Georgie gives him a funny look. “Sure, because that wasn’t suspicious as hell.”

Jon leans down, slipping his shoes back on. “If you’re just dying to know, I’m meeting someone. ...A friend.”

“Okay, now I’m _really_ suspicious,” Georgie calls over her shoulder on her way to her bedroom.  

Jon makes an exasperated noise and follows her. “Is that really so hard to believe?”

“When I’m the only social life you’ve had since uni? Yeah.” She rifles through her drawer and pulls out a set of pajamas. “Also? Get out of here, I need to change.”

She shuts the door in his face and he leans his forehead against it. “You know, I run into a lot of people in my job. It’s quite possible that I- _hit it off_ \- with one of them.”

He hears her snort from the other side of the door. “Sure, of course, was it the lady with the cursed boots? Or that one guy who insisted he was being stalked by one of the Beatles?”

The door opens and she brushes past him and into the little hall bathroom, grabbing her toothbrush. “Or…” she adds thoughtfully, “Maybe you and Martin Blackwood decided to give things another try.”

Jon chokes at the sudden mention of Martin, and Georgie smirks at him around her toothbrush.

He groans and leans his head back against the wall. “How long have you known?” he asks, his voice small and plaintive.

She holds up a finger, motioning for him to wait while she finishes brushing her teeth. After she rinses her mouth in the sink, she shrugs and says, “Two weeks? Melanie told me she’d sent Martin over to the institute, and when I realized you’d never pretended to bitch to me about it, I knew something must be up.”

If Jon could merge his entire body into the wall he would. “Of course _Melanie King_ would be my downfall,” he mutters sourly.

“Don’t be a dick, she didn’t do anything,” Georgie scolds. Then, casually, “So… you and Martin. Are you two friends, or-”

“ _Friends_ ,” Jon cuts in quickly. “At least. I suppose we are. As you know, I don’t have a lot of experience on the subject. But, yes. I think he’d call us friends.”

“Hm. I’m glad,” she says, smiling warmly at him. “You’ve seemed a lot happier lately.”

Jon studies the carpet with great intent. “Thank you, Georgie. I’m- it’s not bad. I’m glad too, I suppose.”

“ _Good_. Now I’m going to bed. You can go home, or crash on the couch if you want.” She gives his shoulder a quick squeeze. “‘Night. Have fun tomorrow!”

He pointedly refuses to acknowledge the potential for fun. “Goodnight.”

* * *

Martin stops by the restroom in the community center, thankful to find it empty. He grimaces at his splotchy face and bloodshot eyes in the mirror as he turns on the tap, splashing his face and hoping it helps him not _entirely_ look like he’s been crying in his car for the past half hour.

Sundays… are difficult. Because Sundays are when he usually goes to visit his mother at the care facility she’s staying in, and his relationship with his mother is--

Complicated.

He doesn’t have to go visit her; hell, he knows she’d likely be thrilled if he just stopped showing up one day. But he can’t just- she’s his _mother_ , he took care of her his whole life, he can’t-

He feels tears pricking at his eyes and that lump rising back up in his throat and he splashes his face again to snap himself out of it. And _now_ he’s going to put this morning behind him and go out there and try to paint the same damn vase the instructor has been making the class paint every week for the past month, and he’s going to have a _good day_.

Besides, he reminds himself, he’s seeing Jon later. He smiles at the thought even as he sniffs and wipes at his eyes. Good, focus on that.

He’s seeing Jon and they’re going to- something. Just take a walk around London, Martin had figured. Check out some shops. See where the day goes. He feels a giddy thrill run through him. It’s still a bit unbelievable, if he thinks about it. That Jon is quickly becoming the person Martin spends the most time with outside of work, confides in the most.

That he _likes_ Jon. He _really_ likes him, as a person. And unless he’s horribly mistaken and this has all been some cruel joke or misplaced pity - neither of which seem to be Jon's style - Jon likes him too.

Martin feels like he’s really come to understand him over the past few weeks; to truly see the Jonathan Sims behind the wall of aloofness and pretentious cynicism. The one who’s painfully insecure, who’s lonely and awkward, who’s just a little shy and god, actually _funny_ in a dry and grumpy and self deprecating way that’s just so _him_. The Jon Sims who adores his best friend and cat-sits for her when she travels, who is insatiably curious and works too damn hard and is so grateful when someone just gives him permission to let himself breathe.

Martin blinks at his reflection, surprised to see a pink tinge to his cheeks that has nothing to do with his recent crying episode. That’s--

\--something to think about when he’s not running late for his class. He grabs a paper towel and quickly dries his face, then shoulders his bag of supplies and heads to the classroom.

_Yes_ , muses to himself, spirits beginning to lift, _today is going to be a good day._

* * *

Jon spots Martin waiting on the cafe terrace across the street. Martin is looking for him, and spots him about the same time, instantly lighting up and waving Jon over.

A few moments later, Jon has joined Martin on the terrace and is taking a seat at one of the little wrought iron tables there. “Martin,” he says, by way of greeting.

Martin seats himself across from him, still smiling bright and happy. He sets down a tray. “Hi,” he says. “I’m glad you made it. I already ordered lunch; hope you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine, thank you. And of course I made it; we had an agreement,” Jon says stiffly.

Martin shrugs. “Yeah, I know, but I know how you get when you’re working. And I know you’re pretty much always working, so-”

Jon lets out a longsuffering sigh. “Starting in with the lifestyle judgements early, I see.” But there’s no heat to it. He takes a sandwich off the tray.

Martin hides his reaction behind his drink and lets the comment pass, though Jon suspects he doesn’t look remotely sorry.

“Really though, I’m glad you’re here,” Martin adds. “It’s nice to see you outside of Thursday afternoon.”

Jon murmurs vaguely in agreement. “Though I don’t really see how having lunch on a Sunday is any different.”

“Well for one thing,” Martin tells him, “Sunday has a totally different… feel, I guess, than Thursday? It has Sunday vibes, you know?”

Jon shoots him a skeptical look and Martin makes an annoyed sound. “Oh come on, I _know_ you know what I’m talking about. You’re so- anyway. For another thing, this way you won’t have to run off back to the institute, and we’ll have time to do other stuff. It’ll be fun.”

“I suppose,” Jon concedes. “...Though I have to warn you, I’m not the best company for- ‘other stuff’.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, thank you,” Martin says archly. “I’ve liked your company just fine, so far. I’ll take my chances.”

Well. That’s certainly- Jon doesn’t know how to respond, as usual, and feels that irritating warmth spreading through his chest again. He takes a large bite of his sandwich to try to snuff it out.

“So-” he says after a beat, taking the conversation down a safer route. “How has your weekend been?”

Martin tilts his head, face thoughtful. “It’s been alright? Yesterday I mostly read, watched some tv. And today is Sunday, so, you know...”

Ah, right. Jon nods, understanding. “...How was that?”

“Hm.” Martin looks down at the table, tracing the shapes in the surface. “It was... fine. I mean, I’ve told you how she is, so-” He cuts himself off and takes a shaky breath. “God, sorry, this is supposed to be fun.” He laughs and it’s a bit too cheerful.

Jon studies him, feeling uncomfortable and out of his depth and a bit sorry for bringing it up, at least indirectly. Knowing full well that he’s terrible at this, he reaches across regardless and stiffly pats Martin on the forearm.

It feels painfully inadequate, but Martin looks up and gives him a small smile. Not a total miss, then.

“Thanks, Jon,” he says softly. “Oh! I had my watercolor class today too.” He clearly wants to move on to lighter subjects, and Jon gladly lets him. “Still painting that same vase. Someone needs to tell our instructor that there’s a whole wide world out there. Full of _different_ vases.”

Jon lets out a bark of laughter, surprising both himself and apparently Martin, who just looks at him, eyebrows raised, before his whole face lights up. Jon quickly stifles his mirth with another bite of sandwich. He’s got to get himself under control.

"So yeah, that's about it for me. How about you?" Martin asks.

* * *

They’ve been walking around the city for about an hour; just wandering aimlessly, stopping occasionally to look in on different shops and places of interest.

Jon is stopped now, looking at the inscription on some plaque, and Martin is looking at Jon. He looks more present and at ease than Martin has seen him yet. He wouldn’t say peaceful; he’s not sure Jon can _be_ peaceful, but some of the tired lines in his face have been eased away, and he hasn’t mentioned work or statements or anxiously checked the time once. When he returns to stroll alongside Martin, his eyes are raised above the pavement and he’s taking in his surroundings with interest.

Martin feels a little jolt of happiness. Even during their weekly lunches, though Jon has relaxed around him considerably, he always carries an air of tension with him. He always seems half distracted, even when he’s clearly enjoying himself; like part of him is still waiting back at the institute. He always walks a bit faster on their way back.

But now he seems to have finally left it behind, at least for a little while. Martin smiles. He’s glad. It’s a nice change. He has to admit, he feels a lot lighter too.

“You’re going to run into something,” Jon says dryly.

“Sorry?”

Jon glances over at him. “If you don’t start watching where you’re going.”

Martin’s cheeks go hot- both at the censure and at being caught. “Oh! Sorry about that, sorry.” He pointedly fixes his eyes on the street ahead of them. “I was just thinking.”

He feels Jon’s eyes on him now.

“Yes?” Jon prompts, impatient. “About?”

He shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “Just that I’m having a nice time,” he says lightly. “And I’m glad you are too. Or- or seem to be.”

Jon is still watching him, and honestly now Martin feels a bit bad, realizing how awkward it is. Finally Jon looks away without a reply, and they continue on in peaceful silence.

...Until they pass by an antique shop and Jon abruptly veers off towards it with purpose. Martin has to backtrack sharply and chase after him.

“Wh- Jon!” He catches up with him at the doors. “What are you doing?”

Jon nods towards the window, where a little cat plush is displayed. “It looks like The Admiral,” he explains, averting his eyes. “Georgie’s birthday is coming up.”

He pushes open the doors to the shop and heads inside. Martin has no choice but to follow, feeling quite charmed.

He has a look around while Jon takes the little cat up to the register. He’s flipping through some vintage magazines with Jon comes to stand beside him, the cat plush now wrapped in newspaper and tucked away in a bag.

“Ready?” Jon asks him.

Martin smiles at him. “Yep.”

They’ve just crossed the threshold when Martin sees something that makes his heart leap into his throat: Melanie, walking up the street in their direction. Shit. _Shit._

Thinking fast, he grabs Jon’s arm and pulls him back inside the shop.

“Martin! What-”

Martin turns him around, ushering him towards the back of the shop. “Hide!”

“What are you-”

“ _Go! Hurry!_ ”

Jon finally catches his urgency and quickly follows Martin to the back and behind a high shelf covered in porcelain dolls.

Martin moves to stand in front of him, peeking around the corner of the shelf. Phew. He doesn’t think they were seen, but that was close.

Jon squeezes past him, peeking as well. He looks back at Martin with wide eyes. “ _What the hell was that about?"_ he whispers fiercely.

Martin opens his mouth to explain, when he hears the bell above the door ding. His stomach drops when he looks up to see Melanie stepping through the doorway, looking around. _Great._

Jon has seen her too, and turns an accusing glare on Martin. “I’m not fond of Melanie either,” he says, “But are you seriously telling me-”

“ _Shut up,_ ” Martin hisses. “Get back here.” Jon still looks equal parts annoyed and baffled, but lets himself be gently maneuvered back behind the shelf.

Whispering again, Jon presses, “ _Martin._ Why are we hiding from Melanie King?”

Martin peers around the shelf again, then glances back at Jon nervously. “...She. Um. Doesn’t exactly know we’re friends.”

Jon glares at him. “After the _look_ you gave me about not telling Georgie? She already knew, for the record. Thanks to-”

“It’s different, alright,” Martin whispers. “Georgie doesn’t hate me with a burning rage. _Now_ _shhh_.”

Thankfully Jon quiets down, and they stand there under the judgemental gaze of dozens of dolls, listening. Footsteps. Footsteps steadily growing closer. Martin can barely hear them over the pounding of his heart.

She’s going to catch them. She’s going to catch them and he--

\--He feels suddenly very, very idiotic, actually. So what? Yeah it’ll be a bit awkward to explain, more so now that he’s made a _huge weird deal over it,_ Christ, but-

Unable to take the pressure any longer, Martin steps out into the aisle. Melanie nearly runs into him.

She makes a startled noise, but grins when she recognizes him. “Martin! I thought I saw you come in here.”

He smiles brightly. “Oh! Hi Melanie. Yeah, I’m just-” He grabs one of the dolls off the shelf. “Popping in for one of these.”

She quirks an eyebrow at it. “Creepy dolls?”

“Um, yeah actually. My, uh, my mum loves them. Collects them. Her birthday is coming up.” He pats the doll on its chipped porcelain head.

Melanie nods. “Huh. That’s sweet of you.” She opens her mouth to say something else, when a loud scuffing noise followed by a muffled curse comes from behind the shelf. Martin feels the blood drain from his face. Melanie peers around him.

“Is someone with you?”

“Nope!” Martin says, a bit too loudly. He forces himself to relax his grip on the poor doll.

Melanie shrugs. “Anyway, I’m headed to the store and then going over to Terry’s. Pizza, video games, just hanging out. Wanna come?”

A strangled whisper sounding something like _“Die already”_ sounds from behind the shelf. Martin clears his throat loudly, coughing a bit.

“Um, yeah, you know, actually, I’m not feeling so great? So I’ll think I’ll be heading home after this. Thanks, though!” He adds. “You guys have fun.”

Melanie gives him an odd look. “...Right. Well, I should get going.” She claps him on the arm and turns to leave. “Stay home tomorrow if you’re sick, by the way!” She calls over her shoulder. “Don’t need the rest of the crew catching your gross germs.”

“Love you too,” he calls after her. She laughs and gives a final wave before exiting the shop.

As soon as she’s out the door, Martin rounds the shelf. “Jon? What the _hell_ -”

He stops short when he sees Jon. He’s got himself backed into the corner, glaring fiercely, clutching a rolled magazine so hard his knuckles are turning white. Martin follows his gaze to a tiny smear on the floor.

“Um.”

Jon starts and looks up at him. He relaxes marginally, lowering the magazine. “Spider,” he says simply.

“Okay,” Martin breathes. He gingerly sets the doll back on the shelf. “Okay, so, we’re definitely going to have to have the spider talk-”

“The what.”

“-But for now, let’s just get out of here before we get _kicked_ out?”

“...Good idea.” Jon steps carefully around the unfortunate spider, still watching it warily in a way that’s frankly kind of adorable - untimely spider death, aside - and they finally leave the shop. Probably much to the shop-keeper’s relief, Martin thinks.

“You are no longer allowed to lecture me about _‘being weirdly and pointlessly secretive’_ , for the record.”

Martin gives him a sheepish grin. “Yeah. Yeah okay, I’d say that’s fair.”

* * *

They’ve managed to wander their way back to the same cafe where they’d started their outing.

Jon, recovered from his harrowing spider encounter, has just finished telling Martin a story about an awful prank that Tim had pulled at an office Christmas party a few years back.

He’s telling it with an air of longsuffering annoyance, but it’s honestly hilarious and Martin feels like it’s intended to be, from Jon’s faintly pleased expression every time Martin laughs.

They lapse into silence, mirth still buzzing between them, and come to a stop in front of the cafe.

Jon finally checks his phone, and then clears his throat, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Right, well- It’s getting late, and I have to be at the institute early in the morning.”

Martin nods reluctantly. “Yeah, yeah I guess I need to get going too.” He absently rubs at the back of his neck. “But, um, this was really, really nice.”

Jon frowns at the pavement, but a softness settles around his eyes. “...Yes. It was.”

Martin doesn’t mean to stare again, but- Jon’s cheeks are flushed from the chilly evening air, and the light from the setting sun is catching in his hair and eyes and painting both a fiery gold. Martin feels something tighten somewhere in his chest.

_Beautiful,_ he thinks.

Martin's thoughts stall, at that, caught off guard. He shakes himself out of it and gives Jon a quick smile. “So, like I said, I should get going. But this was fun! Let’s do it again. Definitely.”

“Ah- sure, alright.” Jon tilts his head, studying him. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” Martin assures him. “More than fine.” He’s- feeling a bit odd right now, admittedly, and he desperately doesn’t want this to end on a weird note. “Be safe getting home, alright? And no statements tonight! You’ve got all week. Do something relaxing.”

Jon seems sufficiently distracted by this, pulling a displeased face. Martin laughs and bids him goodbye, and they go their separate ways.

Alone with his thoughts, Martin decides to tackle this new- whatever the hell. He lets his mind drift back over all the small moments of the afternoon. Jon talking, hands fluttering in time with his words. Jon frowning thoughtfully, Jon smiling while trying to pretend he isn’t, Jon laughing and seeming genuinely content and at ease and real and human and-

_Beautiful._

... _Ah, damn it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was nice letting Martin get a chance to be a dumbass for once. Jon doesn't have a monopoly on dumbass behavior, after all. These two, I swear. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! :) Thanks as always to everyone who reads this fic. I am, of course, [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	10. Chapter 10

Martin is talking with Dave, going over some points for this month’s episode, when he looks up to see Melanie approaching with a smug smile. That can’t be good. He hesitates as she stops in front of them, but when nothing is forthcoming, he continues what he’d been saying. 

“-So I felt like taking a more ominous tone for this one would be a bit insensitive, you know? Considering the historical context.” 

Dave nods his understanding, writes something down in his notes, and turns back to his laptop. Martin gives Melanie a questioning look and heads back to his desk. She follows him, still smirking at him.  

“Okay, you’re scaring me. What’s up?” He sits down and opens his own laptop. 

She props her hip against his desk. “You’re seeing someone.” It’s not a question or an accusation; simply stated as fact. 

To his credit, he barely falters as the words sink in, realizing what she must be referring to. Keeping his face pleasantly neutral, he replies, “Yeah? Sure wish somebody had told me.” 

Melanie scoffs. “Oh come off it. Do you think I’m an idiot? Every Thursday for a month you come back from your lunch all smiling and with your head in the clouds. And then you acted so _weird_ yesterday when I ran into you-” 

“I told you I wasn’t feeling well,” Martin cuts in, still not taking his eyes off his screen and very determinedly ignoring her Thursday comment. He opens up an article he’d bookmarked earlier to skim over. 

Melanie folds her arms across her chest. “Right. And you were hiding inside an antiques shop to keep from giving me your germs, I guess?” 

“What can I say? I’m considerate.” He is the pinnacle of innocence.  

Melanie growls in mock frustration and shoves at his shoulder and Martin laughs, finally looking at her. “Seriously, Melanie, I’m really not seeing anyone? At all? If I get a boyfriend, you’ll be the first to know the details. In the name of friendship.” 

She narrows her eyes at him. “I’m… not sure I believe you, for the record. But fine! Dropping it for now.” She pushes herself off the desk. “But I’m watching you, Blackwood.” 

Martin maintains his cool until she’s across the room and busy, and then lets his head fall to his desk. He’s not seeing anyone. Not in _that_ way. But it doesn’t mean that she wasn’t hitting uncomfortably close to home, in light of certain… personal revelations.

Like the fact that he might be crushing very, very hard on Jonathan Sims. 

He sighs loudly, resigned.

He’s such a sap. Ever since the sight of Jon standing there in the glow of the setting sun _literally took his breath away,_ Martin has been going back over everything he’s thought and felt for the past month, seeing it in a whole new light. 

Of course, if it was just physical attraction it would be one thing. He’d thought Jon was attractive from the moment he saw him - still does - but that quickly lost any and all relevance in the wake of their terrible first date, and then he just sort of... didn’t really give it much thought. Until he started getting to know Jon properly and discovered that he also finds him very charming as a person, in his own way, actually.

And it was fine before he’d _realized_ it. He could have easily gone on in blissful ignorance, enjoying the vaguely warm fuzzy feelings without paying them much mind. But now that he knows, it’s all he can think about. All he can do to keep the huge hopeless grin off his face every time he so much as thinks the man’s name. 

Thinks about his hesitant, reserved smile, the thoughtful little frown he gets, his eyes, his hands, his laugh - all too rare, but god is it breathtaking- _damn it_ he’s doing it again. 

Martin groans against his desk and forces himself to sit up and get back to work. 

It might not be so bad if he thought there was any chance of his feelings being reciprocated, but- he lets out a huff of laughter. Yeah, right. Jon has made it very clear from what he’s told of his and Georgie’s relationship and his sparse attempts since, that relationships are _not_ his thing. That he has no interest at all in them becoming his thing. To think that Martin could ever be an exception- 

He shakes his head. He doesn’t even _want_ to be an exception, necessarily. It’s too soon to tell. He hasn’t even had time to think that far. 

_And I’m not going to,_ he reminds himself firmly. _I’m just setting myself up to get hurt and potentially ruin a good friendship over nothing, if I keep on like this. Time to shut it down._

Alright. Good. He opens a document he'd saved last week and renews his work efforts. That’s settled. So maybe he’s got a crush, it happens. Especially when it’s been so long. But he’s going to be an adult about this and recognize that no good can come of it and put it out of his mind. 

Starting now.

His phone buzzes on the edge of his desk and he lunges for it, heart doing a giddy little flip when he sees Jon’s name- _Oh, hell._

_You’re weak, Martin_ , he scolds himself. _You’re weak and you should feel very bad about yourself._

* * *

Jon can’t stop staring at Martin. He isn’t sure when it started; he first became aware of the problem on their last lunch outing, and it seems to be getting worse.

He isn’t meaning to. But every time there’s a lull in their conversation, he finds his eyes wandering back to Martin’s face; cataloguing every line and freckle and the curve of his cheek and all the subtle ways it changes when he talks or thinks or smiles.

All things he’s never paid particular attention to before, nor does he want to now. But it just keeps _happening_ of its own accord and it’s frankly rather irritating. 

Thankfully, Martin hasn’t seemed to notice yet. 

“You know, I remember you having some pretty snarky remarks about _my_ staring.” 

Ah. Never mind.

Jon winces, pointedly fixing his gaze on the plate in front of him. “...Sorry,” he says, picking at his food, “I can’t seem to focus today.” 

Martin makes a sympathetic sound. “Is it a… statement thing? Or..?”

“Possibly,” Jon replies, thinking. “Probably,” he decides. “It usually is, after all.” He glances up with a wry smile, but it falters when he meets Martin’s eyes. Something fleeting passes between them, a sudden spark of- _something_ , and Jon’s breath catches in his throat. 

But then the moment passes and Martin turns abruptly away, cheeks tinged pink, and catches the eye of their server. 

Jon watches him take the check and thank the server, watches the delicate way his hands move, the- and he’s staring again. Jon closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Maybe he needs sleep. Well, no, he _definitely_ needs sleep. But maybe he ought to actually try to get some. 

“Are you alright?” Martin asks. He sounds concerned. Of course he does. He’s always concerned; always cares. In most people Jon would find it grating. But in Martin- 

He opens his eyes and gives Martin what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Fine,” he says. “Ready to go?” 

They’re quiet on the walk back to the institute, but it’s not uncomfortable. Martin seems distracted, checking his phone or absently looking around him as they walk. His cheeks are still faintly flushed, Jon notices; though that could be attributed to the cool air. 

“Oh, by the way-” Martin begins, and Jon hurriedly averts his eyes to the pavement ahead of them, “- I’ll be out of town all next week, looking into a potential haunting.”

“Oh?” 

“Yeah, so. Just letting you know? I won’t be able to make it to lunch, obviously.” He laughs a little. “I know you’ll be glad for the chance to overwork yourself without me threatening to come and drag you out of the institute.”

Jon scoffs. “I'm sure you’ll find a way. At the very least, your incessant texting will keep me from getting too absorbed in anything.”

Martin shoots him an unimpressed look. “Oh please, don’t even pretend that you don’t blow up my phone every day complaining about Tim.” 

Jon opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. “Well,” he says at last.

“Besides,” Martin continues, “I doubt I’ll have much time to chat, between the traveling and the interviews. You’ll well and truly be free of me.” He gives Jon a teasing grin.

“...I see.” 

Martin slows to a stop and turns back. “Um… Are you coming?” 

Jon hadn’t even realized he’d stopped walking. “Ah- right, yes. Sorry.” He hurries to catch up. 

“I’ll manage somehow,” he says dryly when he’s at Martin’s side again. “I could certainly use a distraction-free week, from a work perspective.” 

They seem to arrive back at the institute much more quickly than usual. Too quickly. At the bottom of the steps, Martin turns to him, smiling. 

“I guess I’ll let you get back to work? But it was- it was nice, as always. Seeing you, I mean.” 

“Quite.” Jon looks at him, and there’s that Something again, when their eyes meet. It sends an odd jolt of feeling through him, and this time he's the first to look away. 

“Well, ah- have a safe trip. When you go.” 

Martin beams at him like he’s just said something wonderful. “Thank you, Jon. I will. And, um, don’t overdo it? I mean here. Because I’ll ask, and you’re shit at lying.” 

“Well, I can’t make any promises-” 

“ _Jon._ ” 

“- but I’ll- I’ll try my best,” he amends, scowling at the pavement. But Martin laughs and Jon feels his expression softening despite his best efforts. 

“I’ll see you when I get back,” Martin tells him, happy and fond, and they say goodbye and Jon watches Martin disappear down the street, an unpleasant hollowness at war with the annoying warmth in his chest. 

Frowning at himself, Jon forces himself to turn and head up the steps and into the institute. 

* * *

“Statement ends.” 

Jon doesn’t realize that he’d forgotten to record the followup notes until he’s already turned off the tape recorder and reached for his phone. Sighing, he goes ahead and checks his phone - no messages - and turns the tape recorder back on to finish. 

Ever since Martin left on his trip, Jon’s been useless. Statements he can get into just fine, that’s- different. A welcome distraction. But as the days wear on, the more routine tasks have become almost out of the question. 

He reaches for the folder Sasha had dropped on his desk earlier and flips it open, thumbing through the pages. 

Martin has become a steady source of much-needed diversion, since they’ve been... spending time together. Variety. Without him around this week, it simply highlights just how _done_ Jon is with this job. He’s burned out, that’s all there is to it. That has to be all there is to it, because if it’s something else, if he’s actually this- _melancholy_ after a few days without- 

“Hey boss! I’m headed out.” 

Jon glances up at Tim leaning into the office. “Alright, Tim. Have a good evening.” 

There’s a pause, and Tim steps fully into the doorway. “Not going to try to send me on a last minute errand? Make some dig at my work ethic? Which is perfectly healthy, unlike-”

“Oh, no, you- you go on. I don’t have anything else for you today.” Jon waves him away and returns his eyes to the file on his desk. 

“...Alright, what’s up?” 

Jon looks up to see Tim studying him with a serious expression. He blinks at him. “You’re going to have to elaborate.”

“Don’t give me that. You’ve been moping around all week.” Tim strides into the office and pulls up a chair across from Jon’s desk. “And when you’re not doing that, you’ve been even more of a dick than usual. What’s going on?” 

Jon rolls his eyes, searching for a suitably scathing comment, but Tim just settles more comfortably into the chair, clearly not intending to be chased off. So Jon just lets out a breath instead and begins, reluctant, “...Martin is off on a research trip, and-”

“Ha!” Tim slaps his palm on the desk, causing Jon to jump. “I _knew_ it was about Martin.” 

“It’s _not,_ ” Jon snaps. “It’s- not having him around is- I’m bored. And tired.” 

“Mhm,” Tim nods and gives him an appraising look. “Never took you for the clingy type, but I can see it.”

Jon glares at him, but before he can reply, Sasha peeks her head in the doorway. 

“You coming, Tim?” Then, looking between him and Jon, she asks, “What’s going on?”

“Martin’s out of town and Jon is pining,” Tim supplies helpfully. 

“ _I’m not-_ ” Jon bites out, face going hot. “...I’m not,” he repeats, more calmly. “I’m, ah- I’m going home for the day, too, I think.” He pushes his chair back and stands up, reaching for his coat. “Good evening, Tim, Sasha.” 

Sasha gives Tim a sharp look, and he sighs and grabs Jon’s sleeve as he tries to pass. “Hey, hey Jon, come on. ...Look, Sasha and I are going out for drinks. You should tag along.” 

Sasha adds, “Yeah, please do? You’ve been acting off all week. You need to get out of this office.” 

Jon hesitates, still glaring a bit, and Tim presses, “You said you were bored, right? And we are _long_ overdue for a proper archives crew hangout.” 

“...Fine.” Jon deflates, his resolve useless against the two of them. “I suppose I do owe you, after all this time.” 

“Great!” Tim releases his sleeve and stands up. “Let’s get you out of here.” 

He herds both Jon and Sasha out of the archives and up the stairs. Once they’re out on the street, Sasha asks, “Do you have anywhere you’d like to go, Jon?” 

Jon blinks, surprised. “Oh. I- no, not really. I don’t exactly do this often.” 

She smiles at him. “No worries. We’ll take you to our usual spot.” 

Tim slings an around Jon’s shoulder. “You’ll have a great time, boss. We’ll help you forget all about whatshisname.” 

“Tim,” Sasha warns. 

Jon delicately extricates himself while Tim and Sasha start lightheartedly bickering. He desperately hopes this wasn’t a mistake. 

* * *

“-And Tim,” Sasha laughs and takes a sip of her drink, “Tim just came bursting through the door, and he grabs my hand and we take off-”

“Must have run at least a mile,” Tim cuts in. 

“ _At least._ ” 

“Sasha lost her shoes-” 

They both dissolve into shaking laughter, Sasha leaning into Jon’s shoulder. Jon is laughing too, surprising himself, and feeling much lighter than he has all week. 

Tim sighs, “God, the things we do for this job. Unlike _you,_ ” he points at Jon. “Wish I got paid to read spooky stories all day. What the hell kind of archives job is that?”

Sasha chimes in, “Right? It’s clear who Elias’ favorite is.” Jon makes a face and she insists, “No, really! I swear he thinks you’re his long lost son or something.” 

“Or he wants in your pants,” Tim says with a wink.

“Tim. Ew.” Sasha grimaces. 

“Have you seen the way the guy stares at him?”

Jon clears his throat loudly. “I am no longer comfortable with this conversation.” 

Sasha pats him on the arm. “You and me both, Jon.” She pulls out her phone, checking the time. “And this is where I take off, guys. It’s been fun, but I’d like to be functional in the morning.” 

Tim and Jon agree that it’s time to go as well, and soon they’re all standing outside the pub. Sasha bumps Jon with her shoulder. 

“Hey, glad you finally decided to come along. We’re not so bad, are we?” 

“Well, Tim certainly brings down your score quite a lot-” he begins, thoughtfully, and Tim looks positively gleeful, “-but, no, no this was- fun. Thank you.” Sasha grins and he dodges a hug from Tim and they all walk together a distance before eventually parting ways. 

Jon is still thinking about it when he reaches his flat a while later. It really was nice, better than expected, spending time outside of work with Tim and Sasha; he feels a brief pang of regret for putting it off for so long. He fumbles for his key for a moment and lets himself in. 

And even better, he thinks, slipping off his shoes and going to get ready for bed, is that this proves that he truly is just bored with his routine. All he had to do was change things up, go out and do something _different - socialize,_ god help him - and he’s perfectly fine. 

His despondency all week has had nothing to do with Martin's absence at all. 

A wave of relief - he doesn't want to examine _why_ it relieves him, he just knows this is deeply important - washes over him at the thought as he climbs into bed. _It’s not about Martin._ He’d scarcely even thought about the man all evening. He reaches for his phone to set his alarm for the morning and sees a missed message from several hours earlier. Frowning, he opens it. 

It’s from Martin. 

It’s a picture he’s taken of himself, windswept and smiling in front of an old dilapidated church. The caption reads, “ _Ghost confirmed!”_

Jon’s heart does something quite pleasant and treacherous, and the hollow space he hadn’t noticed was still there is filled with a rush of warmth. He realizes that he’s smiling like an idiot. 

Oh. 

Oh no. 

He sets his phone down, breathing carefully. Right. Okay. Right, he’s- 

He’s just- 

He risks another look at the picture. Martin’s eyes are warm and happy and crinkled at the edges, his hair is mussed from the wind, and he’s smiling brightly - that certain smile that he always gives Jon and it’s like he’s looking right at him and Jon’s heart does that _thing_ again- 

His mouth is dry and his pulse is hammering as he closes out the messages and opens his contacts, scrolling down and then pressing Call. 

He takes several deep breaths while he waits. After what feels like an eternity of rings, a sleepy voice answers, “...Hello?” 

“Georgie.” 

There’s a rustling of sheets and the plaintive _mrrrp_ of a cat. “Wh- Jon? What time is it?”

“Georgie,” he repeats, very calmly. “I think I might have a problem.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Jonathan Sims. Thank you as always for reading and I hope you enjoyed the latest emotional turmoil. I am [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to come and say hi!


	11. Chapter 11

“What am going to do, Georgie?” The question - asked for the fifth time that morning - comes out muffled and desperate from where Jon has his head buried in his arms on Georgie’s kitchen table. 

Georgie is less than sympathetic, setting a plate of toast down next to his head with a sharp clack. 

“You do realize I’m still mad at you for scaring the hell out of me, right?” She grabs her own plate and takes the seat adjacent to him. “So my advice right now is pretty much limited to ‘congrats on being human, suck it up.’”

Jon cringes at her sharp tone and sits up. Georgie hadn’t been impressed with his middle of the night phone call that had, in hindsight, made it sound alarmingly like he had a life threatening emergency. 

She’d been even less impressed when he remarked that developing- _feelings_ for Martin Blackwood did feel sufficiently like an emergency to him. 

He picks up a piece of toast, idly nibbling at the edges. His mouth is almost too dry to swallow. 

“I can’t let this happen,” he starts up again, and when Georgie sighs next to him he says, “I’m serious, I am completely out of my depth. I haven’t been- I haven’t felt- _anything_ for anyone since, well. You. And we both can attest to how that turned out.” 

Georgie snorts, then looks at him, her expression finally softening some. “I’m still here, aren’t I? Making you toast and listening to you whine. Not too bad of an outcome.”

Jon can’t quite smile, not now, but the tense lines of his face relax some. “Yes, well. Not everyone is _you._ ” 

They lapse into an easy silence after that, until Jon gets up to clear their plates. As he busies himself at the sink, Georgie asks, “When is he coming back?” 

“Tomorrow.” Jon shuts off the tap, sets the rinsed plates aside to dry, and returns to the table. He taps his fingers agitatedly. “We’re supposed to meet for lunch, _of course,_ ” he says miserably. 

Georgie gives him a pointed look. “You know, this only has to be weird if you make it weird.” 

The tapping stops and he looks at her, brow furrowed. “...Sorry?”  

“You only just learned you have a crush on the guy- don’t make that face! It is what it is- and you’re already freaking out over having lunch with him. He’s still your friend. It doesn’t have to be weird.” 

“Do you know me, Georgie?” he deadpans. 

She laughs. “Fair. Just... give yourself some time, okay? You obviously care about him. And I think he’s been good for you. Crushes fade all the time - Don’t go and sabotage this just because you felt an emotion.”

Jon sighs irritably and slumps forward, resting his chin in his hands, thinking. Considering. After a moment, he straightens up, pulling out his phone, decisive. “You’re right.” 

“I know,” Georgie says. “But what are you doing?”

Jon opens his messages with Martin. Begins typing.

“Jon.” She leans over to peer at his screen. 

He angles away from her, finishes typing, and quickly shoves his phone back in his pocket, releasing a breath. 

“...What did you just do?” Georgie’s voice is sharp with suspicion. 

“...I…ah-” He glances over at her guiltily. “-I told Martin that I won’t be able to see him.” 

“ _Jonathan._ ”

“You said to give myself time,” he retorts, defensive. “I am. I need time, I-” He huffs in frustration. 

“You’re panicking,” she says. 

“I thought that much was obvious.” 

Ignoring his snark, she continues, “Look, I get it. I get _you._ Do what you need to do.” She reaches over and gives his wrist a gentle squeeze. “ _As long_ as it’s not that thing where you push people away because you’re convinced you’re going to screw it up anyway.”  

Jon makes an irritable noise and doesn’t look at her. 

“And for god’s sake, at least give the poor man more than an ominous text.”  She pushes her chair back and stands up. “Now I need to work, and you…” she checks the time, “...should get going. Do you want Tim getting to the institute before you?” 

Jon grimaces and stands as well. “I’ll be hearing about it all day.”

“And then _I’ll_ be hearing about it all day,” Georgie says, from where she’s leaned over to unplug her laptop.

Jon puts on his coat and picks up his bag. As he heads for the door he turns and adds, “...Thank you, by the way. For...” 

Georgie smiles at him. “You’re welcome. And you’re a massive drama queen.” She returns to the table and puts on her headphones, shooing him. “Now get out of here. And be nice to Martin!” 

* * *

It’s Friday. Martin is back in London, has gone over all of his research findings with Melanie and the rest of his colleagues, the episode is a go, and he hasn’t heard from Jon since _last_ Friday-- 

\--When he’d received an abrupt text from him, cancelling their plans. Martin had asked if everything was alright, got a simple “Yes” in response, and there had been no further communication on Jon’s part since.

He’s worried. Of course he’s worried. Jon isn’t the most communicative, obviously, but this sudden total silence is different.

Martin bites his lip, warring with himself over whether to contact him again, to ask if he’s alright or if Martin had done something or- 

“Oh, Christ, get it together,” he mutters to himself and returns his attention to the article Melanie had asked him to check out. The only reason he’s acting this way is because of this stupid crush. They’re adults with busy lives and they’re _friends_ and he’s going to give Jon his space. The last thing he needs to do is start getting all clingy now just because he’s caught feelings. Especially when no one even knows about the feelings but him. 

...Right? 

Martin continues scrolling the page, but none of the words register. ...He’s been subtle enough, hasn’t he? He actually laughs almost as soon as the question enters his mind, because ha, no, no he really hasn’t been. Though to be _fair,_ most of that happened before he even knew about the feelings himself, so it can hardly count. 

Right?

A sinking feeling settles in Martin’s gut.

_What if Jon knows? What if he figured it out. What if I said something or did something and he’s uncomfortable now and--_

_Breathe,_ he reminds himself. It’s fine. It’s definitely fine. He hasn’t even _done anything_ and there’s no way Jon is just- ghosting him? ...Although, he realizes immediately, that sounds very much like a Jon thing to do. Especially if it was something to do with _feelings_ , specifically someone - Martin, for example - having unwelcome feelings for _him_. 

Cool. Great. Having given up all pretenses of working for now, he closes his laptop with a resigned sigh. Considers reaching out to Georgie as a last resort, just to check in, make sure everything really is- but no, god, that’d be crossing a line for sure. For now at least. If, say, another week goes by…

Not like Georgie would likely tell him anything; they’re friendly, yeah, but if Jon had asked her not to... And he would certainly ask her not to. _If_ there’s even anything to tell. Which there very well may not be. 

This is ridiculous. He’s getting himself worked up over nothing. He- he misses Jon, yeah, sure. Of course he does. He’s allowed to miss him. But he’s not doing himself any favors otherwise with all this anxious dwelling and speculation. He needs to get out. Get some air. 

Rising from his desk and slinging his bag over his shoulder, he calls out, “I’m going ahead with my lunch,” and makes for the door. 

* * *

“I’m going to lunch. We’ll- we can discuss this when I get back. Thank you, Tim.” 

Jon stands abruptly, handing Tim’s notebook back to him. 

“Oh, alright.” Tim looks taken aback, glancing at the clock. “Martin’s dragging you away early today.” 

Jon is immeasurably glad he’d chosen that moment to rifle through his coat pockets, meaning that Tim can’t see the pained expression he fails to keep off of his face. 

Tim follows him out of his office. “Hey, speaking of which - you bringing Martin to the party next week?” 

Jon is proud of himself for not flinching. “What party? And you know I never go to those- _things._ ” He returns Sasha’s wave as they pass her desk. 

Tim strides ahead of him and turns to lean casually against the door to the stairwell, blocking his path. “Library deal. Celebrating the anniversary of something or other.” He waves his hands with flourish. “But everyone knows it’s just an excuse to get drunk and generate gossip.” He shrugs, grinning. “You know the library staff.”

Jon blinks at him. “I- don’t, really. ...Regardless, no, I won’t be attending, with or without Martin.” Perfectly neutral, voice didn’t even catch on his name. Jon is getting good at this. He reaches for the door handle and Tim moves aside to let him pass.

Once Jon is outside the institute, he sinks down onto the steps, defeated. He assumed that giving himself a few days would be enough to kill these... feelings. Or at the very least, distract himself enough to smother them sufficiently. 

So, armed with renewed purpose, he’d cancelled on Martin, ignored all further inquiries and well wishes, and buried himself in work. Easy enough. 

Except that, well. He just feels like shit now and he still can’t stop thinking about Martin Blackwood, so obviously there was a miscalculation somewhere. 

“Brilliant,” he mutters sourly. “‘Oh, sure, the man leaving for a work trip left me utterly useless, let me fix that by ignoring him when he comes back.’” 

He reaches into his coat pocket for the pack of cigarettes he’d put there this morning, then stops, glancing uneasily up at the building, the back of his neck prickling. Last week, Elias had congratulated him on going a full month without smoking and Jon had never _mentioned_ \-- 

Slowly removing his hand from his pocket, he grabs onto the railing instead and pulls himself up. He needs to get away from here and breathe and _think_.

He doesn’t pay much attention to where he’s going; simply lets his feet take him where they will. Realistically, reasonably, he knows he should just get in touch with Martin and resume life as usual. He wants to. Except. 

Except. He needs more time, is all. 

...More time to stop missing him, to get that awful fluttering out of his chest whenever he thinks about him, to stop mapping out the shape of his smile every time he closes his eyes-

His face flushes hot and he aggressively tries to force his thoughts in any other direction. He doesn’t want this. He _can’t_ want this. This is why he needs space, this is why he needs to just stay the hell away from Martin Blackwood. For just a little while longer. 

“Jon?” 

Jon freezes, dread piercing through him. He forces himself to look towards the source of the voice. 

Sure enough, there’s Martin - because of course, having let his guard down, Jon would have happened to wander directly to Martin’s favorite writing spot, _of course_ \- seated on a park bench with his bag next to him and a notebook on his lap. 

He stands immediately, just catching the notebook as it topples off his legs. He sets it aside and starts towards Jon, a look of such relief flashing across his features.

Jon looks around wildly, for a half second actually considering running. Martin must catch this, because he slows his approach, expression turning hesitant.

“Jon?” he asks again, tentatively. “What are you doing here? Is, is everything okay..?” 

“I- I’m… hi, Martin.” 

Martin finally reaches him, stops and searches his face with an air of apprehension. “Were you… here looking for me?” he asks. “Did you not get my messages? Or. Um-” 

“No,” Jon cuts in. “No, I… I did. I’m sorry about that, by the way. For not getting back to you.” He looks around the park, desperate for anything to fix his attention on but coming up distressingly short when Martin is right there in front of him.

“Oh. Oh, alright. That’s alright,” Martin tries for a smile, but it’s still too cautious and Jon hates the way it makes his chest hurt. “You were, I mean I’m sure you were bus-”

“Stupid.” 

Martin frowns at him. “Sorry?” He sounds offended. 

Jon shakes his head frantically. “No! Not you, I meant-” He forces his fingers to unclench from his coat hem. “Look, Martin. I need to... I think we should...” 

He knows what he needs to say, but Martin is _right there,_ anxious and warm and smelling like whatever cologne he uses, and he’s chewing at his lip, probably not realizing that he’s doing it, and Jon doesn’t _want_ to feel so much lighter now from just having him in front of him, but. Well.

“...Would you like to go to a terrible office party with me?” The words come out in a rush and even as he says them he’s surprising himself, and cursing Tim, but it feels… infinitely better than what he’d planned, so he clamps his mouth shut before he can take them back.

Martin looks just as taken aback as he is. “Um. That’s- are you sure you’re okay-” 

“Fine. I’m- look.” Jon rakes a hand nervously through his hair, staring hard at the roots of a nearby tree. “I’m sorry about… this.” He waves his hand between the two of them. “If it’s all the same to you, I would really like to forget that this entire week happened, and I would also _really_ like for you to go with me to this pointless, utter waste of time of a party.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Martin-- bursts into giggles. Jon looks up sharply, and his breath catches at the way Martin is looking at him, all inexplicable affection. 

“God,” he’s saying, shaking his head, “god, Jon, sure. Alright. Whatever you say.” Smile fading a bit, he asks, “But, are you sure everything is okay? I didn’t, um, didn’t _do_ anything?” 

Jon's shoulders relax, some of the awful tension he's been carrying finally eased. “No, no not at all, you’ve been- fine.” _Perfect,_ his traitorous brain had tried to supply. Cheeks burning, he repeats, resolutely, “You’re fine.” 

Martin studies his face a moment longer, then smiles and shakes his head again. “Alright, then.” He rocks on his feet then gestures towards the bench where his stuff is still lying. “Come sit?” 

Jon follows him, and once they’re seated on the bench together - something fresh and woodsy; Martin’s cologne, that is, maybe something with pine - Martin puts his notebook away and turns to him.

“So… tell me about this terrible party?” 

Jon rolls his eyes. “The library staff are throwing it. Tim told me this morning, I have no clue what it’s actually for. I never go to them, myself, but, ah-” He glances at Martin, then fixes his eyes on a point a few meters out in the grass. 

“Well. You’ve been gone, and then I was... I thought we could go,” he finishes decisively, as if that was any kind of satisfactory conclusion. 

There’s another stretch of silence, and then Martin pats him on the thigh. “I missed you too, Jon,” he says.

Jon shoots him a sharp look, an automatic denial ready on his lips, but Martin’s eyes remain warm and teasing - possibly even more so, upon seeing Jon’s expression, and so he quickly changes the subject.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, he asks, voice a bit too loud, “How was your trip?”

* * *

_It’s not a date,_ Martin reminds himself aggressively, examining himself in the mirror. _So there’s no bloody reason for you to have to try on every shirt in your closet._

It’s not a date. Obviously. 

But, Martin’s heart is stubborn and idiotic and no matter how many times he tries to reason with it, it just keeps racing giddily at the thought of Jon inviting him, personally, to go to a workplace event with him. Where his coworkers are. Where he clearly doesn’t normally attend, himself, but Martin had been gone, he’d said, and so he wanted to- 

Blue. Blue shirt, definitely. 

He glares at his reflection as he changes. Again. This _really_ isn’t going to help on the whole crush front; letting himself get worked up over an office party. But damn it, he’s letting himself have this. 

He’d missed Jon, while he was traveling, and then he’d missed him when he got back, and then he’d thought he’d somehow ruined everything and would have to miss him even more, and then it turns out Jon had missed him too - though he’ll never say it - and _damn it_ he’s letting himself have this. 

Jon is waiting on the steps of the institute when Martin arrives. He looks - _gorgeous._ Martin tries very hard for another, safer, word, but none are forthcoming. Jonathan Sims is sitting on the third step, leaning forward, elbows rested on this knees, perpetual thoughtful frown on his face and looking tired and rumpled and utterly gorgeous, and no amount of denial will change that.

He looks up as Martin approaches. 

“Martin,” he says stiffly, standing.

Martin smiles and hurries to join him. “Hi,” he says. He feels suddenly shy, here. A couple people shuffle past them up the steps and into the building. Martin doesn’t know who they are, but he recognizes them as institute employees.

A thought occurs to him. “Um, is it really alright if I’m here?” he asks. “I mean, it’s not just an unspoken employees only thing, right? I don’t want to make a bad impression.” He forces a small laugh. 

“What? Oh, no, it’s fine,” Jon says distractedly. “People bring dates to these all the time, or so I’ve heard.” 

Martin inhales sharply, choking.

Jon seems to immediately realize what he’d said, because his eyes go wide and he stammers out, “Not that we’re- this isn’t- I didn’t mean a _date,_ date, just that-”

Taking a deep, grounding breath, Martin helps him out. “Right! Right, got it. Of course.”

“Of course,” Jon agrees. His knuckles are white where he’s grabbed onto the railing. “I hope you don’t think I meant that we, that I _thought_ that we…”

Catching his meaning, Martin hurries to reassure him. “No! No, god, no, not at all.” His face is burning so hot he thinks it must be glowing. 

“Not a date,” Jon says, quietly, as if to himself.

“Not a date,” Martin echos. 

Martin leans against the railing, willing his heart to slow down. 

He feels Jon’s eyes on him - always, these days - but he doesn’t look. His composure can’t handle that intense, dark stare right now. 

It’s Jon who finally breaks the silence. “That’s a, uh. Nice shirt. The color.” 

Martin is pleased and agonized in equal measure. Jon is killing him. Jon Sims is going to _kill him_ tonight. He smiles at him shyly. 

“Oh? Thanks! Just, just something I threw on before I left.” 

Jon looks away, brow creased, then gestures towards the door. “I suppose we should..?”

“Right, yeah, let’s go on in.” Martin pushes himself off the railing and starts up the steps. “I’m looking forward to meeting Tim, again, in an official capacity.” 

“Ugh.” Jon makes a disgusted face and heads for the door, and Martin laughs. 

“Come on, Tim seems great,” he says, following him. 

Jon reaches for the door and hesitates. Glancing back at Martin, he says, “Just… promise me, _whatever he says to you,_ you won’t listen to a word of it.” 

Martin rolls his eyes, reaching past him and grasping the door handle. “Whatever dirt Tim Stoker has on you, I promise it won’t affect our friendship.” He pulls open the door. “But to put your mind at ease, I’ll be sure to wipe my memory before I leave tonight.” 

Jon doesn’t look remotely mollified, but he steps inside and Martin follows him, feeling so helplessly fond that it hurts. 

Not a date. 

But he’s so far gone already, it can’t hurt to pretend, a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a date. Definitely not. The more you say it, the more true it becomes. Thanks so much as always for reading! And also as always, if you want to come and find me I am [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. :)


	12. Chapter 12

It’s odd, being in the institute after hours. Not that Martin has spent much time in it during open hours, but he has come in often enough to retrieve Jon on their lunch days. 

As he follows Jon to the library, they pass a couple researchers that he recognizes. They recognize him, too, and return his friendly greeting. 

The main lobby of the library has been cleared out and ambiguously decorated; all the tables pushed along the walls and holding refreshments, the ceiling decked out with streamers, balloons, and various banners containing words like ‘celebrate’ and ‘congratulations’. Music is playing from a small speaker system set up on the front desk. 

No sooner have they stepped through the door than they are greeted by Elias. Wonderful.

“Jon, I don’t believe you’ve ever attended one of these, have you?” He’s standing by the entrance, as if waiting for someone, and steps forward when they turn towards him. He’s smiling that same mild, self-possessed smile. It puts Martin on edge immediately. 

“Ah- no, no I don’t usually go in for…” Jon waves his hand at the room. “Thought I’d see what the hype is about.” He laughs awkwardly. 

Elias nods, then his eyes fall on Martin. “And of course you’ve brought Mr Blackwood. Nice to meet you again.” He addresses the last part to Martin, holding out his hand. Martin tenses, but forces himself to relax and politely respond in kind. 

“You’ve done wonders for our Jonathan, here,” Elias tells him, grasping his hand. “He’s practically a new man, these days.” And it's- it's an odd thing to say anyway, but something in his eyes tells Martin that it isn’t a compliment.

Jon makes an uncomfortable sound next to them. “Well, we should be getting on. I think I see- er-.” He’s scanning the room, clearly hoping to spot someone to save them. 

Elias thankfully takes the hint. “Of course.” He releases Martin’s hand and backs away. “I had a prior engagement tonight, myself, but I felt it would be a shame to not make an appearance and support our staff.” He resumes his place by the entrance, checking his watch. “I’ll let you two get on with your evening. Enjoy the party.”

As they walk away, Martin can still feel those awful cold eyes on his back, same as when he’d first met the man. He suppresses a shudder. 

“God, what a creep,” he mutters, as soon as they’re out of earshot. 

Jon snorts. “I’m serious,” Martin insists. “He acts… _weird_ about you. And me, actually. I don’t think he likes me, very much..?” 

“Believe me, I know,” Jon says, sounding pained. “He’s just- well. I wouldn’t take it personally.” He stops and looks around, studying the assorted small crowds again, looking a bit lost. “How do I not _know_ any of these people?”

Martin joins him in his search, craning his neck to see across the room. “Oh! I think I see Tim.” 

Sure enough, Tim is across the room, leaning in an open doorway and talking animatedly with a group of people. On cue, he looks up and catches sight of Jon and Martin, confusion blooming on his face turning to surprise turning to a wide, happy grin. He says something to the group and breaks away, starting towards them.

Jon stiffens. “Remember,” he says tersely. “ _Nothing_ he tells you-”

“Tim Stoker is a pinnacle of lies when it comes to you, got it, relax,” Martin cuts in, laughing when Jon gives an indignant huff. 

“Are the end times truly upon us?” Tim calls out dramatically as he approaches. “Jon, good of you to finally stop hoarding Martin. Martin, blue is a great color for you.” 

He pulls Jon into a quick half-hug, and claps Martin on the shoulder, looking at him appreciatively.

“Oh! Uh, thanks,” Martin says, pleased and a bit flustered. 

Jon shoots Tim an irritable look. “Is that necessary?” 

Tim feigns  innocence. “What? I’m very interested in color theory. Haven’t I mentioned it?” To Martin, “I’ve heard you take painting classes?”

Martin is caught off guard, by that. “Yeah! Yeah, just the past few months, really.” He flusters even more, now, because- “Did… did Jon tell you-”

“And there’s Sasha,” Jon points out, particularly loudly. He’s already striding off in her direction, so Tim shrugs at Martin and they follow close behind.

Sasha seems just as pleased and surprised to see Jon there, and Martin notices her and Tim share a look that he can’t quite place. But then she turns to him, smiling warmly.

“I’m so glad Jon brought you along. Hope Tim hasn’t made you regret it already.” 

“Hey!” Tim interjects. “I complimented his shirt. We talked about art. He loves me.” 

Martin laughs. “No, I’m glad to be here. To get to meet you guys, officially? Outside of the obligatory ‘hi’ when I’m dragging Jon out of the archives.” 

“About that, we have to thank you,” Sasha says. “You know, we were genuinely worried that he’d started living down there.” 

Jon rolls his eyes. “I’m right here, you know.”  

Tim slings an arm around him. “You sure are. Thank you, Martin Blackwood, for saving our dear boss from his terrible fate.” 

Jon ducks away from him and mumbles something inaudible, and Martin bites back a smile, flushed and secretly pleased.

The conversation moves on to other topics, most prominently work-related. Sasha is just finishing a story about some bizarre things she found in a heavily encrypted file.

Martin is riveted. “Why would someone need to hide… blurry bird photos?” 

“Why wouldn’t they, with those photography skills,” Jon remarks dryly, and Martin bursts into admittedly disproportionate giggles. Jon looks at him in surprise, and then does that thing he does with his face when he’s pretending not to be pleased. It does treacherous things to Martin’s insides. 

“So, Martin,” Sasha says, and Martin hurriedly turns his attention back to her, ears burning. “Hm? Yes?” 

“What is it you do, again? Jon’s said something about some show, or..?”

“Oh! Right, yeah, I’m, um, a researcher,” Martin tells her. “For Ghost Hunt UK.”

Sasha lights up. “I _thought_ I recognized you from somewhere. You’ve been in some episodes, yeah?” 

Martin nods. “Just a couple more recent ones. I mostly work behind the scenes. Make sure there _are_ scenes.” He hesitates, then asks shyly, "So, I take it you watch the show?”

“I never miss an episode,” she confirms. “Jon got me into it, actually.”

Jon makes a choked noise next to him and Martin shoots him a pointed look. “Really?” he asks, still looking at him.

Jon shifts uncomfortably, not meeting his eyes. “It was- a long time ago,” he relents.

Martin hums. “Didn’t realize you were into, what was it? ‘Staged youtube drama that cheapens the whole genre’?” 

He grins when Jon casts him a tentative glance, and Jon subsequently scrunches his face in disdain and looks away again. 

“Shut up, Martin,” he grumbles. 

Martin pats him on the shoulder. “And on that note,” he says, “I think I want a drink. Anything for you guys?” 

Waiting his turn at the beverage table, Martin idly studies the room, his eyes eventually wandering to where Jon and the others are. Tim is leaning over and saying something to Sasha, to which Jon responds, scowling and looking ruffled. 

Jon shoves his hands in his pockets and stiffens his shoulders in that way he does when he’s feeling defensive, and he turns his head, scanning the room. When his eyes fall on Martin, his face softens almost imperceptibly, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 

Martin isn’t sure he’s ever quite understood the description of someone’s heart being in their throat, but right now he gets it on a very personal level. And then Jon turns abruptly away and so Martin turns abruptly away and the moment is gone.

Martin sees that the crowd at the table has dispersed and so he moves in, heart still feeling vaguely out of place. He sighs. Hopeless. He’s utterly hopeless.

He’s just finished pouring the fourth glass when an odd chill wafts over him. He shivers and looks around, thinking there must be a vent or an open window nearby. 

And then the music stutters and distorts into a painful staticky screech and he yelps and startles, nearly knocking over their drinks, before all goes strangely muffled and quiet. “ _Jesus-_ ”

In almost the same moment, a voice behind him cheerfully pipes up, “Shame, really.” 

He whirls around to find- a man. An older man. A very pale older man in a heavy pea coat and scarf, standing rather alarmingly close and regarding him with an air of amusement. 

Martin glances around nervously. No one else seems to pay him any mind. “Um. Can I help you?” he asks at last, for lack of a better response. 

The man continues his thought as though Martin hadn’t spoken. “Hm. If the Archivist hadn’t snatched you up, you would have made an excellent candidate. Potential just radiates off of you.” He chuckles to himself, like he’s just told some private joke, and takes another step into Martin’s space. Martin backs up automatically, bumping into the table. There’s something odd and distant about the man; a cold, hollow quality to his voice. Alarm spikes through him when he notices that the rest of the party has gone muted and fuzzy, as if he’s viewing it through cloudy glass. 

Then it hits him. Of course. It was only a matter of time. 

Pointedly ignoring the cryptic comments, he folds his arms across his chest and states with certainty, “I know what you are.” 

This seems to give the man pause, and he looks at Martin with deep curiosity. “Oh?” 

“Yep.” Martin nods. Proud of himself for keeping the shaking in his voice to a minimum. “Dealt with plenty of your kind. Bound to have pissed some of you off. You’re a ghost.” 

The man blinks at him, obviously taken aback. Then his face crinkles with mirth and he laughs, loud and hearty and echoing. Martin flinches at the sound and the suddenness of it but holds his ground.

Catching his breath and still chuckling lightly, the man says, “A ghost! Delightful! I guess that _is_ a way of putting it.” He gives Martin an appraising look. “I like you, Martin. I might see you again, after all. That Archivist _is_ a difficult sort, so I’ve heard.” 

Martin bristles at the man’s - _ghost’s_ \- tone and blatant references to Jon, but refuses to let himself be goaded. He’s just opened his mouth to respond - to _demand_ to be let go - when another, unfortunately familiar voice cuts in sternly:

“Peter.” 

As if they’d never left, the music and sound and life of the party return full force and Martin stumbles a bit under it, dizzy. Elias swoops in, gingerly carrying two glasses of wine.

“Here you are,” he huffs. “Late as always.” 

“Sorry about that,” the man- ghost- _Peter,_ apparently, says with a smirk, looking anything but sorry. He takes one of the glasses. “I hope you didn’t miss me too much.”

Elias takes a sip of his own wine, regarding him coolly over the rim of the glass. “Never. How was your trip?” 

Peter leans in and lowers his voice. “Long and lonely.” He seems to have entirely forgotten Martin’s presence, and Elias seems not to have noticed it at all.

Elias doesn’t break from his detached demeanor, but he doesn’t move away and his voice holds no uncertain suggestion when he says, “Perhaps we could catch up in my office.” 

...Martin, exasperated, red-faced, and beyond uncomfortable at this point, clears his throat. “Um, _excuse me_ , if I could just- _get by_ …” He awkwardly balances the four drinks in his hands and moves to squeeze past the two. 

They both turn their attention on him simultaneously. Peter grins. Elias raises his eyebrows. “Oh, Mr Blackwood. Of course, forgive our rudeness.” He moves deftly aside. “Please carry on.” 

He then allows Peter to link their arms, and they turn and begin to weave their way through the crowd. Peter looks back and gives Martin a parting wink that leaves him feeling cold inside and more than a little gross. He takes a moment to ground himself, then returns to Jon, Tim, and Sasha. 

“Oh please, Jon,” Tim is saying. “Are we even talking about the same man? Have you _seen_ the way he looks at y-” 

Sasha sees Martin approaching and speaks up. “Martin! You made it back, we were wondering what happened to you.”

The others startle and turn towards him, Tim with a sheepish expression and Jon sharp and alarmed. Martin gets the distinct feeling that he’s missed something. 

“...Oh, um, yeah, sorry. Got held up.” He passes everyone their respective drinks. 

Jon frowns at him, studying him. “Are you okay?”

Tim looks at him more closely and adds, “Yeah, you kinda look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

A bark of laughter escapes Martin, at that. “Yeah, about that.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Thought I had. Honestly. But- did you guys see that man? Anyway. There was this man, and he made me- _really_ uncomfortable. Actually I think he and Elias went off to-” He stops himself. Shakes his head. 

“You know what? None of my business. Let’s just- what were you guys talking about?” 

“Jon’s business,” Tim supplies cheerfully. 

“We were _not,_ ” Jon insists, peevish. 

Martin sighs at the lot of them and resumes his place next to Jon, the disturbing encounter not forgotten but conveniently pushed aside as he focuses on the warmth of Jon’s arm next to his, instead - _hopeless_ \- and the evening carries on pleasantly enough and ghost-free.

* * *

Some time later, they’ve finally left the party and are strolling aimlessly away from the institute.

Jon pulls his coat closer about himself and lets out a sigh. If he’s being honest, he’d actually had fun. Who would have thought? But the conversation kept wanting to take rather dangerous turns, and he’s glad to finally just be safely alone with Martin again. 

He glances over at him. Martin is walking silently alongside him, looking thoughtful. Jon can’t tell if it’s good or bad, and he desperately needs to know. 

“So,” he ventures. “That was- something.”

Martin blinks at him, focusing. He laughs quietly, a bemused look flitting across his face. “Yeah, yeah it sure was. I had fun, though. Thanks for inviting me.” He adds, a teasing note in his voice, “Best not-a-date I ever had.” 

Jon snorts and his shoulders relax in relief. “I’m glad,” he says simply, and they continue walking.

After a long moment, Martin begins, “Um. I was wondering…” 

Jon looks over at him - permission to continue. 

Martin bites his lip. “I kind of noticed that people seem to be under the impression that we’re…? You know?” When Jon frowns, he continues, “That it _was_ a date.” 

Oh. Jon sucks in a breath, hoping the street is dark enough to hide anything telling in his expression. “Did they?” he asks, affecting distraction. “I, ah, didn’t notice.”

“Nobody blatantly… said anything,” Martin amends. “Just, subtext. A feeling I got.” He stops under a lamppost, fidgeting, not quite meeting Jon’s eyes. 

“Well,” Jon says, cursing the way his voice cracks, “You know how people like to gossip.” 

“Right, yeah.” 

They fall into silence, and something occurs to Jon. Still keeping his tone as casual as possible, asks, “...Does it bother you?”

“No!” Martin says immediately, then, “I mean, no. Of course not. Like you said, people _will_ gossip.” He smiles at Jon, but it falters a second later when he asks, “Um… does it bother you? At all?” 

“Of course not,” Jon huffs, and the smile returns, relieved and shy and holding something else Jon can’t quite name. He wants to, though. 

He rakes a hand through his hair, thoughts racing and heart not faring much better. 

Martin is watching him with that look of utter affection that Jon still can’t for the life of him understand but does terrible things to his composure every time.

He shoves his hands into his coat pockets, nails biting into his palms. 

“Martin,” he says, almost unbidden.

Martin raises his eyebrows in askance. “Yes, Jon?” The glow of the streetlamp makes him look softer than usual, otherworldly. Jon isn’t one for applying that sort of poetry, and even now he can feel himself wanting to scrunch his face at it, but- 

“Martin,” he repeats. Not even entirely sure what he’s doing but knowing he should definitely stop himself. “I was- I was wondering. If you would-” 

A particularly loud truck blares past them, causing them both to jump. The moment is passed and cold, unpoetic reality sets in, and he finishes lamely, “-If you would like to... go in somewhere.” He gestures at Martin. “You didn’t bring your coat.” 

Jon lets out a harsh breath and turns his head, gazing down the street unseeing and internally cursing and thanking the traffic in turns.

But then Martin laughs, soft, and if Jon was an idiot he’d imagine a bit sad, but, well- and he says, “Sure, Jon. Got anywhere in mind?” 

* * *

They ended up in the little restaurant where they usually go for lunch, where they’d gone that first time Jon had reluctantly followed Martin out of his office. They sat at their usual table, in the corner by the window, and they made their usual order. 

The odd mood from earlier had quickly dissipated, and they talked quietly between bites of pizza and Martin caught Jon up on his encounter at the party. 

“Seriously?” Jon had asked flatly. “A ghost?”

Martin defended himself. “You didn’t see him! You didn’t see how- _weird_ everything went. I must have been having a, a dizzy spell or something, I guess?” He’d picked up a slice of pizza, pointing it at Jon. “He _should_ have been a ghost.” 

Jon hid his fond amusement behind his glass.

Everything is fine. Everything is comfortable and as it should be. Until they’ve left and are back outside the restaurant, and Martin turns to him. “Hey, Jon?” 

He’s looking down, twisting his wallet in his hands. Something about it makes Jon’s heart skip.

“Hm?” 

Martin glances back up at him. “Earlier. When you, um. Asked if I wanted to go in somewhere?”

Another skip. Jon swallows, his throat suddenly gone dry. “Yes?” 

Martin is chewing his lip again, his brow creased in concentration. He studies Jon's face and Jon forces himself not to look away. “Are you sure that’s what- I mean, were you...” He trails off, then gives a nervous half laugh. “Sorry, you know what? I’m, I’m just tired. Sorry.” Right on cue, he stifles a yawn.

Jon’s legs go weak with relief. He's got to be more careful. “...Right. Right, well, you should be getting home, then.” 

“Yeah,” Martin agrees. He gives Jon a stern look. “You too. No going back to the archives tonight.” 

“I wasn’t planning on it, for your information,” Jon says, knowing full well he’d been planning on it.

“Mhm,” Martin hums knowingly. There’s a lull, and he rocks on his feet. “Well, as I said.” He gestures down the street. “Be safe getting home, alright? And again- thanks. For inviting me. It was really nice.” 

“It was,” Jon agrees. “-And yes, I will. You too.” 

Martin gives him a final smile - warm and bright and sincere - and it makes Jon’s breath catch annoyingly in his throat. “I’ll see you soon, Jon.” 

“Of course,” Jon replies, and watches him until he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for reading! :) I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I am of course [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to find me.


	13. Chapter 13

“What kind of party?” Melanie scans the rows of cards. Picks up one with a smiling cartoon dog on the front, flips it open, puts it back. “You have a secret, wild double life you’re not telling us about?”

Martin snorts. “Oh yeah, sure, that’s me.” He moves to the other end of the shelf, examining the cards there. “No, it was just an office party. A friend invited me. Pretty tame, even by those standards.” 

“Yeah? Whose office?” Melanie straightens up and shows him a card. “Also, how’s this one?” 

“Looks good to me.” 

She tucks the card into its paper envelope and follows Martin into the gift wrap aisle. One of their colleagues has a birthday later this week. 

“...The Magnus Institute,” he ventures. 

She pauses, hand poised over a bright blue bag. Scrunches her face in confusion. “Who do you know at the Magnus Institute?” 

Martin busies himself with some appropriately colorful tissue paper. “Oh, you know. I’ve met a couple people there. Sasha James?” 

Melanie brightens at that. “Oh! Sasha’s cool, I know her. We’ve met, anyway. She’s a big fan of the show.” 

“Mhm, she told me.” 

They gather their chosen gift paraphernalia and make their way to the front to check out. Melanie asks, “You haven’t run into Jon, have you?”

Martin has never been more proud of his poker face than now. “Uh, yeah, a bit.”

“Ugh. I hope he didn’t give you too much trouble.” 

“...Actually, no? I mean he’s not that bad, really?” 

Melanie stops in front of him, her face a picture of blatant disbelief.

Martin winces. “Alright, yeah he’s- _brusque._ Rude as hell, actually,” he concedes, laughing. He runs a hand through his hair. Then belatedly remembers to tone it down and places his hand firmly at his side.

Melanie raises an eyebrow. 

Martin coughs. 

“So,” he says, moving around her and continuing towards the register. “What, um, what happened between you two?” 

“Gross, don’t say it like that.” She leans over and grabs a bag of candy and tosses it on the belt with the other items. “Anyway, Georgie’s close with him; god knows why. I met him through her. We hung out in a group a few times and he was always so unsociable. And when he was sociable, he was a dick. We never got along.” 

The clerk rings up their items and Melanie pulls out her wallet to pay, still talking: “One time we got into it about the show. He was being a huge snob about it, and I _may_ have lost my cool. Just a little.” She shrugs. “We haven’t been in the same room together, since. Thank god.” 

“Oh.” That sounds _very_ familiar. Martin accepts a piece of candy and one of the bags, and follows her out of the store. “I don’t think he means it? Or, I mean, according to Sasha, he actually likes the show.” 

Melanie gapes at him. “Really, now?” 

Martin hurries to amend, “I don’t know if he watches it _now,_ but, yeah. Apparently he was a big fan at one point.” 

“That asshole.” But there’s a smile slowly spreading across her face and something dangerous in her voice. 

Martin realizes he may have made a mistake. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“Oh no, this is good.” She nods to herself, that worrying smile only growing. “That- absolute _prick._ I’m giving him a shout-out in the next episode.” 

“Please don’t?” Martin says faintly, but Melanie has charged on ahead with renewed energy. 

Martin has definitely made a mistake. 

* * *

“So,” Georgie says, “just to clarify: you volunteered to go somewhere, outside, around people, and you’re _not_ planning to use it as a buffer for bad news later? I’m not going to get home and learn that you’re dying or something?” She and Jon are currently on their way to lunch after visiting a science exhibit she’d been wanting to see. 

Jon makes an offended sound. “For your information,” he says archly, “I just realized it had been awhile since we really did… anything, together. I thought it would be nice.” 

She hums and loops her arm through his, leaning into him while they walk. “Good. And it _is_ nice.” 

He huffs in mostly token annoyance.

“Really,” she continues after a beat, “I’m glad you’re getting out more. I was really starting to worry about how much time you spend with that creepy tape recorder.” 

“You think everything about my job is creepy,” he points out. 

“And _you_ sit in a basement all day and read about people turning into worms.” 

“She didn’t _turn into worms_ ,” Jon corrects her. “According to the statement giver, it was more of a rupture-” And Georgie is giving him a _look._ “Ah. Point taken.”

The conversation moves on; Jon shares the details of some of the more blatantly fake and pre-lunch-appropriate statements that had come in recently, Georgie chats idly about some ideas for future What the Ghost episodes. She’s thinking of asking Martin to come back on sometime; he’s knowledgeable and has a ‘great presence’ when he gets to talking about his work, apparently. Jon remembers listening to their collaborative episode; he didn’t know who Martin was at the time, but he’s gone back and listened since for… reasons, and he has to agree. 

“Oh, speaking of...” Georgie says suddenly, smiling at something up ahead of them.

Jon frowns at her, questioning, before following her gaze, where he sees Martin stepping out of a cab several yards ahead. 

His insides do the usual irritating things they do when he sees Martin, and he has to bite back the usual irritating smile. ...Which is helped considerably by Melanie exiting the cab immediately after. The only time he’s ever found himself feeling _grateful_ for running into Melanie King. 

Georgie has already called out and strode ahead to greet them, so he follows somewhat reluctantly behind. He catches Martin’s eye over Georgie’s shoulder as she goes in for a quick hug, and the way Martin looks at him has that damned smile fighting to return all over again. 

“Hi,” Martin says as he approaches. He sounds a bit breathless.

“Hi.” Jon knows the feeling, and it’s terrible. Pushing past it, he asks, “What are you two doing? You and… Melanie.” He tries and almost succeeds in keeping his voice neutral at the end. 

"Don't be rude," Martin warns. He holds up a shopping bag. "We're on birthday duty at work. You guys?”

“Georgie and I went to see that exhibit. I thought it might be nice to get out.” 

Martin looks impressed. “Glad to see my good influence is still at work when I’m not around,” he teases.

Jon scoffs but doesn’t attempt to dispute it. Martin grins, looking at him _that way he does_ again and Jon decides it’s time to turn his attention on- literally anything else, honestly. He takes out his phone and pretends to check the time. 

“You’ve been- having a nice day, then?” he asks, haltingly. He hears Martin make a noise of confirmation. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s been pretty good. Melanie’s always fun to hang out with.” At that, Jon has to finally raise his eyes, giving Martin a flat look.

“ _Don’t be rude,_ ” Martin repeats, hushed. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“You don’t have to. It radiates off of you.” He’s still smiling, despite clearly trying to look reproachful. Jon’s gaze catches on the little lines it makes around his eyes; nine of them. 

He starts when Georgie taps his shoulder.

“Ready to go?” she asks. 

...Staring. He was staring again. He clears his throat and tears his eyes away from Martin’s bemused ones, heat creeping down his neck.

“Ah- yes. Yes, I’m ready.” He looks over at Melanie and nods, acknowledging her for the first time. “Melanie.” 

She’s giving him an odd look. “...Yeah.” Then, “Oh, by the way? You might want to watch our next episode. No reason.” There’s something- disconcertingly smug there that Jon is afraid to question.

While she and Georgie say their goodbyes, Jon shakes off the apprehension, best he can, and looks back to Martin. “So- I suppose I’ll see you?” 

“Yeah,” Martin agrees brightly. “I’ll see you. Of course.” He hesitates a moment, plucking at the shopping bag between his hands and looking as if he wants to say something else, then just directs a quick ‘bye’ at the two of them and retreats after Melanie. 

Not long after, Jon and Georgie are seated in a cab, having decided on a lunch destination a bit farther off, and Georgie is practically beaming.

“ _What?_ ” Jon finally asks. 

She turns her grin on him. “That boy likes you,” she says, sing-song. 

“He- Wh- what? Who?” Jon sputters, taken aback. 

Georgie’s grin vanishes. “Jonathan. Who were you just talking to?”

...Oh. _Oh._ He blinks at her. “Martin? Yes, well. We _are_ friends.” He picks at a thread on his seat. 

She stills his hand, dragging his attention back. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” 

“And what you mean is absurd.” 

She ignores his dismissal. “You should ask him out.”

“Why would I do that?” he asks sharply. 

“Because he’s nice, and you want to, and he’ll say yes?” she offers, as if it’s really that simple. It’s never that simple. For one thing- 

“Martin Blackwood is _not_ romantically interested in me,” Jon intones. “He just- he isn't.” He flusters and turns towards the window, fingers tapping at the door handle.

Georgie has the audacity to laugh. “I am going to give you so much _hell_ at your wedding.” 

* * *

Martin stills and closes his eyes when he feels the now all too familiar squelch under his shoe. He takes a deep breath and carefully lifts his foot, checking the bottom. Sure enough, he’s just squished two more of those bloody disgusting worms that he’s been seeing around all week. 

He represses a shudder - he’s carrying a birthday cake and can’t take any chances - and wipes his foot on the pavement before pushing open the door to Ghost Hunt’s shared office. He must not repress his disgusted expression, however, because as soon as Melanie spots him, she grimaces. 

“More worms?” she asks. 

“Yep!” he replies with sarcastic cheer. “I don’t know what it is about those things, but they give me the creeps. And I normally like bugs.” 

Melanie makes a retching sound in agreement and comes to take the cake off his hands. She places it on the designated table. 

“Haven’t seen any in the building yet?”

“Not yet.” Martin slides his bag off his shoulder and onto the floor by his desk. “Thank god. There was one in the cafe earlier when I was trying to get breakfast. I changed my mind, needless to say.” 

“Good thing we’re having cake,” Melanie says. 

Martin agrees, and sets about helping her and the others get things set up for their modest birthday party. When everything seems ready, he settles in with his notepad and a book he picked up at the library to try to get some work done while he can. It’s not urgent; they’re in between episodes right now, getting ready to set out tomorrow to film that place he investigated up north. Still, he likes to stay on top of things. 

He notices Melanie in his peripheral vision, moving around and doing something or other. Distantly hears her ask, offhand, “You still going to meet Jon for lunch today?” 

He makes a note, flips a page. “Hm, yeah, but I told him I’d be late because of the birthday stuff.” 

“I knew it!”

Martin jumps at her sudden exclamation and looks up, wide-eyed. “What are you-- oh.” Right. She got him. 

And looks very pleased with herself, at that. “I knew it,” she repeats, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You and Jonathan _fucking_ Sims.” 

Martin cringes and looks around wildly. “Keep it down, would you? It’s not like that.” 

“Not like what?” she asks. “Not like you’ve been secretly dating my nemesis behind my back for months?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Bit dramatic, yeah?” 

“You’re the grown-ass man having secret lunch dates.” 

“I’m not _dating_ him,” Martin insists. “We’re just friends. And I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be- like this, about it.” 

She paces in front of his desk. “I can’t believe this. First Georgie, now you. I can’t get away from the bastard.”

“Would you please just- just _sit down?_ ” Martin hisses. 

Melanie glares at him. “You are not in a position to be making demands.” But she does, to his relief, pull up a chair. 

“I am not dating Jon,” he says again, desperation creeping into his voice. “We really, really are just friends.” 

She narrows her eyes, studying him. Finally she sits back. “Huh. Could have fooled me.” Martin flushes instantly, but before he can address _that_ statement, she asks, “So… how did that even happen? Like..? _How?”_

He considers asking her very politely to let him get back to work, but one look at her face tells him he’d best just get this over with. He sighs and puts his head in his hands, defeated. 

“Well…” he begins, “remember that blind date I went on a while back..?”

“...No.” 

Martin glances up. “Yeah, remember? I told you all-”

“No, I remember,” she clarifies. “I just mean… _no._ ”

“Oh. Well, yeah,” he laughs nervously. “That was, um. That was him.” 

“ _No,_ ” she says again, more firmly. “You mean to tell me- you mean to tell me _Jon Sims_ was your weird blind date stalker?” Martin’s silence clearly is answer enough. “Oh my god. It makes so much sense.” 

He picks up his pen, twisting at the cap. “He didn’t actually stalk me, you know. It was- it was just. A thing. It happened.” Melanie makes a disbelieving sound. 

“Anyway-” he says, determined to wrap this up, “-long story short, he was a prick and I hated him, then we got to know each other, and- and he’s really- okay not _nice_ , not exactly, but I like him. A lot. And we’re good friends.” He clears his throat and sets his pen down, probably far too forcefully. “So.” 

Melanie is staring at him with a stunned expression. “Huh,” she says again. “Well you know I don’t get it, obviously. And I’m judging. Hard.” She huffs and shakes her head. “But you haven’t seemed miserable, so you do you, I guess.”  

Martin laughs, both in relief and at the absurdity of the situation. That he largely brought on himself, admittedly, but... “Well, thanks for your blessing,” he says. 

“Any time.” She stands up and grabs the chair she’d dragged over. “Oh and by the way? You’re both so obvious it hurts to watch. God, I cannot believe I’m saying this, but just _ask him out already_.” 

Martin nearly chokes on the pen he’d absently picked back up and started chewing on. He opens his mouth to argue, but Melanie is already retreating across the room, and he notices Terry lighting the candles on the cake. So instead, he takes several deep, calming breaths in an attempt to will his face to be anything less than flaming, and then gets up to join the festivities. 

* * *

“...Tim was able to obtain the police report detailing Mr Heilberg’s attack, but nothing contained within suggests that the encounter was anything other than an ordinary burglary attempt. End recording.” Jon turns off the tape recorder and reaches for the glass of water at the edge of his desk.

...And promptly knocks it over when he’s startled by a figure standing in the doorway. 

“Oh for- _Christ, Martin._ ” Jon leaps up as the water spills across the surface of his desk, sending a precarious stack of files cascading to the floor in the process. He grumbles under his breath and grabs a wad of napkins out of the bin in the corner to soak up the spill before it does too much damage. 

Martin swears and rushes forward, kneeling down to gather up the scattered pages and folders. 

“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” he’s saying, sounding frantic. 

“It’s-- fine,” Jon assures him. “Not your fault.” He grimaces at the sopping napkins, which have quickly exceeded their soaking capabilities and are now just pushing the water around the desk. He tosses them back in the bin with a sigh and crouches down to help with the files. ...And then, because this was going so well already, he loses his balance and topples forward directly into Martin.

“...Sorry,” it’s his turn to say. 

“It’s fine,” Martin squeaks. 

Jon is sprawled flush against him with a very crumpled-sounding mass of papers crushed between them. His face hurts from where it presumably collided with some part of Martin’s face. He struggles to sit up some, with Martin’s help, and rubs at his throbbing cheekbone. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

Martin nods, looking a bit distracted. Or perhaps just dazed from the impact. “Mhm. You?”

“Fine.” 

Martin’s face is rather pink, he notices. Next he notices that their faces are in fact still only inches apart and he is still very much half-straddling Martin’s lap and that he should probably move. He _wants_ to move, but Martin’s freckles are standing out nicely and that feels more important, in the moment. It occurs to him that he’s never counted them. He’s tried, but Martin always moves or talks and he loses count. One under his left eye. Six across his nose. Two next to the corner of his mouth-

“Uh. Jon?” Martin’s voice is too high. His breath smells like that cinnamon gum he likes. 

Jon snaps himself out of it with a jolt. Blinks. Hard. “...Sorry. I’ll just-” He pushes himself back and _off of Martin, for god’s sake,_ and starts briskly gathering up the remaining papers and putting them in a haphazard stack. 

“The statement,” he tries to explain. “I’m always- hazy. After I record.” It’s not a lie. He takes the papers Martin had gathered and adds them to his own. 

“Oh. Yeah, no worries,” Martin says, that high note still present. 

Jon stands and places the stack on top of the filing cabinet. Martin stands too, and Jon can feel him watching him, even if he can’t quite manage eye contact just yet. 

“Right,” he says. He eyes the remaining puddle on his desk. “Right, I’ll- get that cleaned up when I get back.” Finally he faces Martin, who still looks a bit... something. Discomposed. Jon attempts a quick smile. “Ready to go?” He picks up his coat.

Martin bites his lip, then gives him one of his usual shy smiles in return. “Sure, yeah. If you are.” 

All Jon can think as they exit his office is how immensely grateful he is that Tim isn’t in right now.

 _This is getting out of hand,_ he thinks, despairing. But what the hell is he supposed to do about it? He already learned the hard way that distance doesn’t cut it. If anything, it only makes it worse. And he doesn’t think he has the will power at this point to try again, regardless.

Unbidden, Georgie’s advice from the cab springs helpfully to his mind. 

...Only to be instantly and viciously forced back out. Jon shoves his hands deep into his coat pockets and walks faster, daring the words to follow after.

By the time they’re outside, Martin has opted to fill the silence with chatter about his day so far and the upcoming episode. Jon is content to listen, letting the familiarity wash away any residual anxiety he might be feeling. Martin at least appears to have got past it, and is happy and animated beside him. Looking forward to seeing his hard work put into use. Jon relaxes marginally and allows himself a genuine smile.

Something drops heavily on his shoulder when they pass under the eaves of an old building. He yelps and brushes it off. “What was that?” 

Martin peers down at the pavement and groans. “Ugh, it’s one of _those things_.” 

Jon looks down at the wriggling silvery worm at his feet. “Oh, right. You told me you’ve been seeing these around.” He’s reminded uncomfortably of the statement Georgie had brought up just the other day, and hurriedly dismisses the thought.

Martin stomps the worm with a scowl. “Must be the time of year, or something? I’ve never seen them before, though. But I _hate_ them.”

They check around for any more, and finding the pavement and overhead architecture worm-free, Martin resumes what he'd been saying - something about the tone they'll be conveying for this episode - and they continue on their way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You can't have a double theme of ominous worms and romantic tension," I told myself, and then proceeded to publish this anyway. Thank you so much, always, to everyone who follows this fic! :) I hope you enjoyed the chapter. And also as always, you can find me at [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Worm Time! This chapter features a bit more spookiness than usual, by virtue of worms, but there's softness too, and next chapter is going to be soft as hell. So. Be ready.

Martin stares out the window on the train ride back to London. He’s got his headphones on, with the full intent of catching up on a podcast. Truth be told, however, whatever the voices in his ears are saying has long since been dulled to a distant buzz as he imagines what Jon’s mouth would feel like beneath his.

It’s become something of a preoccupation, in recent days. Not that he’s never thought about kissing Jon before; god, of course he has. In passing, in flustered starts and stops, when Jon gives him that surprised, unguarded little smile that he hides all too quickly, or when he’s across from Martin at lunch and makes some grumpy, snarky remark that they both know he doesn’t really mean, or when Martin passes a particularly affectionate couple in the street and he can’t help but imagine that it’s him boldly pressing Jon up against the side of the printing office. 

Fleeting images that he’s quick to push out of his mind lest his thoughts show through on his face. 

But damn it, ever since... the _incident_ the other day in Jon’s office, well. He’d really thought for an unbelievable half second that Jon had been going to kiss him. Which is absurd, of course. Because he very, very decidedly _hadn’t._ Martin isn’t even sure what he would have done if he had; something stupid and blundering, no doubt, that would ruin it and ensure that it never happened again. 

Still, after the fact, he can’t help but wonder at the outcome if he’d just closed the short gap between them, then. If he’d gently cupped Jon’s cheek and pressed his lips against his, had brought up his other hand to tangle softly in Jon’s hair. The way he’d so, so badly wanted to. 

Realistically: best case scenario, they’d both be in for a _very_ uncomfortable lunch. But here in the safety of his imagination, Martin can so easily envision the two of them sprawled on the floor moments later, time and responsibility and scattered files blissfully forgotten. Maybe he’d let his teeth catch on Jon’s bottom lip, maybe Jon would sigh into his mouth and fist his hands in the front of his shirt and drag him closer-

“Must be some podcast,” Melanie remarks next to him. 

Martin jolts sharply at her voice, swallowing back a strangled sound. He scrambles to push his headphones off and turns towards her. 

“What? Sorry? What was that?” He clears his throat and shifts in his seat. 

Melanie gives him a bemused look. “I said it must be some podcast. You haven’t moved once since you curled up over there. I was starting to worry,” she jokes. 

Oh. Oh, right. Martin relaxes, letting out a relieved breath as subtly as possible. “Yeah,” he laughs, “yeah it’s, it’s interesting enough. I think I’m mostly just tired, though.” 

She hums and returns her attention to her phone, where it looks like she’s playing some kind of puzzle game. Martin sighs and turns back to the window, replacing his headphones. The interruption sort of killed the mood, so he doesn’t return to his kissing-on-the-office-floor fantasy just yet. 

He does think about Jon, though. He thinks about all the other moments thrown into relief in the wake of that one. Things that suddenly, in hindsight and lumped together, make some tiny hopeful little part of him think they might just mean something. 

Martin doesn’t have as much romantic experience as he’s sometimes wished he had, but he’s not an idiot, and he’s not blind, and there’s been something- different, for sure, between Jon and him lately. Sure, he could argue that they’ve just become close, and they have. They’re good friends. Hell, he might even consider Jon his _best_ friend, at this point. 

That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? His… other feelings aside, Jon is deeply important to him. The impossible friendship they’ve managed to form purely on… chance? Fate? Whatever the hell? Is deeply important to him. Does he really want to risk screwing that up on the chance that he’s _not_ imagining whatever he’s seen in Jon’s face when their eyes meet lately, heard in the way his voice is just a touch softer with him now? 

The way Jon _looks at him_ . Just. All the time. With such focus, like he’s trying to burn Martin into his memory. The way he did the other day on the floor of his office _and Martin is not going there right now._

The podcast episode, whatever it had been about, has long since ended and Martin closes out the app and opens his messages. Reads through his last conversation with Jon - a quick ‘We’re on our way back’ on his part, and a dry plea from Jon to hurry up so that he isn’t stuck having lunch with Tim any longer than necessary. 

Martin smiles automatically, but it fades just as quickly. He sighs again and slides down in his seat. It’s not worth the risk. It’s just not. 

He looks down at his phone again, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Presses his lips into a thin line. 

Quickly types out, _“Hey, when we see each other next I wanna ask you something”_ and presses send and then shoves his phone deep into the bottom of his bag and places his hands firmly in his lap, heart pounding so loudly he’s sure Melanie can hear it. 

And perhaps she can’t quite hear his heartbeat, but she is staring at him with some consternation. 

“You good?” 

He gives her a quick smile. “Yep. Good. Fine.” 

“...Right.” 

Thankfully she doesn’t push it and after an agonizing handful of minutes, Martin forces himself to reach into his bag to retrieve his phone. One new message. From Jon. A single question mark.

 _That’s fair,_ he thinks. It’s all he can do to keep his hands from shaking when he hurries to reply, _“Whoops, sorry if that was scary. Nothing bad!”_ He desperately hopes not, at least. 

He distracts himself the best he can while he waits for a response. When it finally comes, the longest thirteen minutes of his life later, it simply reads: _“Alright.”_

“Alright,” Martin agrees under his breath, earning another odd look from Melanie. Alright. 

* * *

Martin’s stomach is still churning with nerves when he says goodbye to Melanie and the rest of the crew at the station an hour later. His legs still feel like jelly when he finally arrives at his flat. 

Did he do that? Did he actually do that? Is he really _going_ to do-- _that?_

Guess so.

He huffs out a shaky little laugh, a dazed smile forming on his lips. He’s going to do it. He’s going to ask out Jonathan Sims. And he’s only half certain it’ll end in disaster. If he’s being reasonable and not letting his nerves get to him, not even that. They’re adults. They’re adults with a solid friendship. And Jon is- _Jon,_ but he’s not… he wouldn’t be cruel. Well. He would, in some circumstances. He definitely can be. But not in this, Martin is sure of it. 

...Not deliberately. 

Oh, hell. 

He grimaces and forces his thoughts elsewhere. No room for that, not now. No room whatsoever for doubts or logic or, well, thinking at all, really. 

_Squelch._

Now he grimaces for an entirely different reason upon reaching the top of the stairs and immediately stepping on _one of those bloody awful worms that he’d actually forgotten about for a few wonderful days._

He goes to wipe his shoe on the edge of the step, only to discover, to his horror, at least half a dozen more worms wriggling around his feet. He yelps and only just catches himself before falling backwards down the stairs. He nearly leaps back down them on his own when the worms at once wriggle themselves around and start squirming towards him. Instead he stomps them viciously and then staggers away from the stairwell, breathing hard and looking wildly around for more. 

 _“Christ,”_ he exhales, bringing a hand up to his heart. He slumps against the wall, feeling a bit silly, in immediate retrospect. They’re worms. Just worms. 

Getting his nerves under control - hell, at least this temporarily got his mind off of his impending conversation with Jon - he makes for his door. That’s when he notices an odd… musty sort of smell, coming from down the hallway. Like damp towels left in the hamper for too long. _I hope that’s not coming from mine,_ he thinks, wrinkling his nose and trying to remember if he’d done his laundry before leaving. 

He’s about a meter from his door when the lights flicker and his heart leaps into his throat when he sees the figure he’d somehow missed at the end of the hallway. He freezes where he is, eyes going wide and a _really bad feeling_ settling over him. It’s-- a woman, it seems. Just a woman. Standing with her back to him, her long grey overcoat dingy and torn and her dark hair matted over her back. Martin goes suddenly cold. 

Something’s wrong. He’s not sure why, or how, but- 

He takes his phone out, ready to call for help if he needs to, and then takes a cautious step forward.

“Um, excuse me? Are you alright? Can I help you?”

And then the woman turns around. 

Martin just barely gets his door slammed shut behind him as the avalanche of worms hits it with a heavy, wet thud. He turns the lock and draws the chain and frantically stomps the few worms that have already squeezed underneath, then rips his coat off and stuffs it up against the crack. Then, still fueled by adrenaline, he drags his couch across the floor and shoves it hard against the door for good measure and staggers back across the room, collapsing against the wall, breath coming in harsh gasps. 

 _“Fuck,”_ he whispers, when he finally catches enough breath for it. Then, “Okay. Okay, so. Not just worms, apparently. Great. Good to know.” He scours his brain for every scrap of knowledge he’s ever picked up about supernatural entities. Because there is absolutely _nothing_ natural about the woman outside with grey skin full of holes _full of hundreds of_ _very aggressive worms._

“Okay. Um. Um. The woman. Looked pretty corporeal, from what I could see. The damned- _worms,_ the bad smell-” he tries to steady his breathing as he thinks back over every book he’s read for work, every episode they’ve done, every- “Something, something demonic, most likely. Demonic entity. Demon worm lady. Great. What the hell does she want with _me?”_

A loud, steady knocking at the door startles him out of his thoughts and he moves to drag his small dining table over to add to the barricade in front of his door. “Figures, really,” he mutters. “I guess it sort of comes with the job. Meddling with things you shouldn’t. There was that incident- what was his name? Marcus? had with the ectoplasm a couple years ago. And then-”

He flinches hard and swears when the knocking starts up again. 

He should... call someone. Melanie, or one of the others. Maybe they have some advice. He’s the researcher, but… He should at least let them know. Being trapped in your flat by a demonic worm lady is definitely the sort of thing you let people know. And Jon. God, _Jon._ Who Martin is supposed to be seeing tomorrow to confess his feelings and hopefully ask him out for a proper date sometime. He’s already got some half-smooth, half- embarrassing line planned about them needing a do-over after the way their first one went down. 

The worm lady is still knocking. Martin laughs; a hysterical sound. If this is some kind of- some kind of sign from the universe, Jesus. He gets the hint. 

He reaches for his phone and alarm spikes through him when he finds his pocket empty. He pats the next pocket, and then the others. No. _“No,_ no no no-” 

In desperation he dumps his bag out on the floor, already knowing he hadn’t had time to stow his phone away in there before he bolted into his flat. 

Great. Just _great._ He exhales slowly and scrubs a hand over his face. He’s still got his laptop, at least. 

...His laptop that he evidently forgot to charge before they headed back. 

...He tries to plug it into the wall, and nothing happens. 

...Flips the light switch with mounting dread, noticing for the time the how oddly quiet and still his flat is, and sure enough, no power. Of course. _Of course._

The knocking continues. His flat smells like wet towels. 

Martin sinks to his knees, adrenaline ebbing out of him and leaving cold, resigned fear in its place. It’s going to be a long night. He hopes Jon won’t worry too much. 

* * *

Jon stomps back into his office from his visit to Elias, where he’d tried in vain to bring up his concerns about all the damned Leitner statements he’s been encountering. At which point Elias had, of course, placidly - _infuriatingly_ \- given him the ‘record and study’ speech that Jon has heard half a dozen times by now. 

He throws himself down into his chair. To be fair, he’s not entirely sure what he expects Elias or any of them to do about a bunch of books that they don’t even know the first location of. It just grates at him, knowing they’re out there, just waiting for yet another hapless fool to pick them up and have their life ruined with the turn of a page. 

“This is a _research center, Jonathan_ ,” he grumbles mockingly under his breath. He yanks a drawer open and fishes around for a pen. “You’re the archivist, Jonathan. Your only job is to _archive_.” He opens his laptop and pulls up his work email as viciously as one can pull up an email. Which is admittedly not all that satisfying. 

The Leitner statements always put him in a terrible mood. It doesn’t help that Elias had _just_ reprimanded him earlier for evidently not reacting with enough empathy to one Miss Herne. But not wanting people to fall victim to cursed books, _that’s_ outside the realm of his responsibilities. He’s to be detached, professional, to merely record and observe and not get involved. But also be _lovely,_ can’t forget to be _lovely_ to Naomi Herne. 

He opens the document Sasha had sent him after lunch and skims over it with a deep scowl, taking notes. He glances at the time; two hours to go. 

If he’s… being honest, he was already on edge before the Leitner statement. The statement made it infinitely worse, as did _Elias,_ but he was certainly on edge. He checks his phone; nothing. Yesterday, Martin texted him that he wanted to ask him something when they saw each other next. Which is supposed to be today, after Jon is off work. Well, after Jon is _intended_ to be off work; not that he’s in the habit of actually leaving, then.  

That aside: Whatever the hell Martin needs to ask him that he couldn’t simply ask in the moment over text or even a phone call is a question that has haunted Jon for the past twenty-two hours. 

He frowns and pushes Martin and his irritating vague requests and Elias and Naomi Herne out of his head the best he can, and loses himself in his current task: double checking some sources Sasha had pulled with regard to the Leitner. 

He’s emailed Sasha two more requests, sent Tim to search the library, and made it a quarter of the way through perusing a stack of old statements by the time he remembers to check the time again. Ten after five. 

He blinks. Checks his phone. Still nothing from Martin. Odd. 

He reluctantly shuts off his laptop and sets aside the stack of statements, and painfully rises to his feet. Stretches his spine with a series of loud pops and picks up his bag and heads outside, where-- 

\--Where Martin isn’t waiting for him. Jon’s brow furrows in confusion. Looks up and down the street, then checks his phone again. 

 _“I’m waiting outside the institute.”_ He sends the text and leans next to the door to do just that. 

Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen. Thirt- this is ridiculous. Jon sends another text: _“You do realize I have work to do.”_ Not a full minute passes before he finally just calls him. The phone rings about a dozen times before going to voicemail. Jon makes a frustrated noise into the speaker. 

“Martin,” he bites out, agitation rising, “I agreed to leave work early so that you could ask me your mysterious bloody questions, and I don’t appreciate-” He stops himself, closes his eyes. Continues, voice strained but softer, “...I’m sorry. It hasn’t been a good day. Just- let me know if you can’t make it.” 

He hangs up and slides down the wall, drawing his knees up to his chest. Clamps his hand down on his thigh to keep it from bouncing. And nearly jumps out of his skin when his phone chimes in response a moment later. 

It’s from Martin, thank god. _“Sorry, stomach problems. Make it up to you.”_

Oh. More tension than Jon had realized he’d been holding rushes out of him. Right. Alright, that’s- fine.

_“Thank you for letting me know.”_

He stares at the text as it sends and winces at himself. Quickly adds, _“I’m sorry again about the voicemail.”_ Then, for good measure, _“Let me know if you need anything. Feel better soon.”_ There. 

Jon just sits for a moment, soaking in the relief. Then he stands with a heavy sigh and pulls open the door and makes his way back down into the archives. 

* * *

_“Still sick. I think I must have picked up a parasite.”_

Jon props himself up in bed and squints blearily at the message on his screen; a response to a query he’d sent last night asking after Martin’s health. It had been a full week now, with no further correspondence from Martin aside from a quick confirmation that he still wasn’t feeling well when Jon had asked after him the second day. And so Jon had been trying to keep his distance, knowing that he, himself, doesn’t like to be hovered over when he’s under the weather. 

But now, looking at the latest message, cold doubt begins to trickle into the back of Jon’s mind. It doesn’t feel right. Something about the whole situation just doesn’t _feel_ right, and Jon is… concerned. Here, in the grey early morning, half asleep and alone, he can admit that he’s becoming concerned. 

He’d never entirely managed to quash his apprehension over the worms that Martin had been seeing around. Relatively unfounded apprehension, since there’s no real reason to necessarily connect random worm appearances to a supernatural entity. He’s just been… uneasy, lately, in general. There’s something about the statements, the more he records, the further he gets into them. Odd connections and reappearances, too many coincidences for him to be able to pretend to be comfortable with. Privately, at least. 

Jon sets the phone down and flops heavily back onto his mattress. 

Martin is fine. Well, Martin is evidently very unwell, but it’s just an ordinary illness with ordinary causes. He hadn’t even mentioned the worms again, since they saw one on their way to lunch that day. 

...That day. The day Jon had made a complete ass of himself and undoubtedly made Martin extremely uncomfortable in the process. Things had felt strange between them ever since. It may very well be Jon’s imagination, of course; a product of his own feelings of discomfort. But it has certainly crossed his mind already that this sudden silence is Martin trying to distance himself, using this ‘sickness’ as a way to let Jon down easy until he gets the hint. 

He irritably tosses the blankets aside and drags himself out of bed and stumbles towards the bathroom to get ready for work. He trusts Martin. He trusts Martin more than anyone, aside from Georgie. She is always quick to tell Jon when he’s pissed her off and crossed a line, and Martin would be, too. 

Martin is sick. Not being devoured by Jane Prentiss. Certainly not trying to-- to send Jon a message, for god’s sake. Just. Sick. 

“Believe it or not, sometimes there are normal explanations”, Jon mutters irritably to himself, turning on the tap and stepping into the shower. “And you don’t even have to make them up.” 

Twenty minutes later, he buttons his shirt, pulls his shoes on, tugs at and smooths out his trouser legs. Slings his bag over his shoulder and starts to reach for his phone- 

-then, after a second’s hesitation, he checks it one more time - nothing - and opts to leave it on the nightstand. He really can’t afford any distractions, today. 

When he returns late that night, well after dark, Jon forces himself to change out of his work clothes, have a quick dinner, and read over some notes Tim had left for him, before so much as picking up the phone. When he does, he finds two texts from Georgie, an email notification from Sasha, and absolutely nothing at all from Martin. 

 _Which is expected. Since Martin is sick,_ he reminds himself. 

Despite his best efforts, dread is settling heavy in Jon’s chest by the time he climbs into bed shortly thereafter. He makes an exasperated sound and curls on his side, not bothering to close his eyes. He already knows he won’t be sleeping tonight. 

* * *

 _Shame,_ Martin thinks bitterly. _I used to love peaches._

But now, nine days into his imprisonment and forcing down a final mouthful of squishy, room temperature chunks of fruit, he honestly thinks he might cry if he ever comes across another one.

He’s been wearing his headphones nonstop, too; not that he has anything to effectively plug them into, but it helps muffle that awful _knocking_ that he’s pretty sure is going to echo against his eardrums long after he gets out of this mess. _If_ he gets out of it. 

He’s tried everything. Shouting for help until he lost his voice. Beating on the doors and walls and floors. He’d considered jumping out the window, but when he went to check out his odds he’d found the glass half covered in worms. Every spare sheet, towel, pillow case, _sock_ , is currently stuffing every possible crack and crevice that a worm could conceivably squeeze through. And every centimeter of the perimeter of his flat is lined in salt, plus every other herb and spice he could find in his pantry, just to be safe. 

Martin will openly admit that he may have been just a bit desperate and more than a little sleep deprived by the time he got to that point. But then again, it had been nine days and the Whatever the Hell She Is still hadn’t come in, so maybe the parsley counts for something. 

Nine days. _Nine. Days._ It’s surprising and more than a little hurtful that no one has come looking for him in all that time. Of course, someone should by all rights have heard his screaming and carrying on, so there’s got to be something supernatural at work, there, too. Maybe the worm lady is- is hiding him, or something. Maybe he’s been sent to some hellish pocket dimension. Maybe he’s been here for years already, long presumed dead and grieved and all but forgotten back in his world.

“...Bit too far-fetched, even for this.” He sniffs and sets the empty peach can aside and gets up to pace his bedroom floor. Once, twice, three times, throws himself back down onto the bed in despair. And boredom. _Christ_ he’s bored. 

“Can’t believe I’m going to die like this,” he groans, hoarse and plaintive. “I wonder what everyone thinks. At least we’re just editing at work right now; they don’t really need me for that. Still, Melanie’s going to be pissed that I’m not there for the release.” 

He sinks further into the mattress. Has his ceiling always had that stain, there? God, he hates popcorn ceilings. Impossible to clean. “I wonder what Jon thinks happened,” he muses. “...If he’s thinking of me at all. He’s probably buried himself in statements and doesn’t even realize I’m gone yet.” It should be a bleak thought, but Martin allows himself an almost-smile nonetheless. 

* * *

Today marks thirteen days since Martin first became trapped in his own flat, and something is different. 

He sits up in bed after a rare night’s sleep, groggy and stiff, and listens. Aside from the usual sounds of traffic below, everything is quiet. 

And then he leaps out of bed, suddenly fully awake. _Everything is quiet._ A horrible chill runs down his spine the next second when it occurs to him that maybe that means she’s finally got _in,_ but… no. Peeking his out of his bedroom quickly shoots that thought down, thank god. All of the furniture, all of his sheets and towels, all of his - Jesus, his salt, really, Martin? - is still in place. And the knocking has finally stopped. 

Martin is honestly worried that his heart is going to pound out of his chest before he even has a chance to make his escape. He stops in the middle of the living room where’d begun pacing out of habit, and forces himself to take three slow, deep breaths. Then, he grabs another can of peaches and his can opener, eyeing them both balefully as he takes a seat on the floor, and he waits. 

* * *

Jon glares at his reflection in the archives bathroom, where he holds his phone to his ear, waiting. 

Thirteen days. Six days since he last heard from Martin. Not for lack of trying; if he wasn’t so consumed with worry, he would be embarrassed at the volume of texts, calls, and voicemails he’d left over the past three days alone. 

He slumps forward, resting his forehead on the cool edge of the sink. Then jolts upright when the call finally gets picked up. 

Melanie doesn’t sound impressed. “Why are you calling me? Wait, why do you even have my _number?”_  

“You clearly have mine,” he can’t help but point out. 

There’s a pause, then, “What do you want, Jon? Is Georgie alright?” 

“She’s fine, Georgie’s fine,” he reassures her quickly. Then, taking a deep breath, he says, “I wanted to ask about Martin.” 

“Oh.” Then, “What about him?”

Jon bites back his frustration. “Is he okay?”

There are voices in the background, and closer, what sounds like typing. “Yeah?” she says, sounding distracted. “I mean he’s out sick, right now, and it sounds pretty rough, but yeah. He didn’t tell you?” 

“...No, no he told me. I was just- well. Have you talked to him recently?” 

More typing, and Melanie calls something indistinct to someone across the room, presumably. Then she’s back. “Uh? I guess? Few days ago, when I sent him a text checking up on him, since it had been-” 

“And you haven’t been by his flat? Didn’t think to go and see him for yourself?” Jon snaps. 

Jon hears the start of a sharp retort on the other end, but she abruptly cuts it off. “...Okay, what’s really going on? What’s wrong with you?”

He sighs heavily and starts towards the door. Melanie doesn’t know any more than he does, and trying to _explain-_ “Nothing,” he tells her. Probably a bit too quickly. “Thank you, Melanie - give Martin my regards, if you speak to him.” With that, he ends the call before she has a chance to respond and strides out of the bathroom. 

Back at his desk, Jon picks up the file that had been deposited there in his absence and deftly flips it open, throwing himself into his work. He’s been in a foul enough mood lately that even Tim has left him alone, aside from archives business, and while the thought does inspire a pang of guilt, it has been nice being able to get properly immersed without worrying about interruptions. 

Well, aside from the occasional intrusive thoughts about Martin being devoured alive by worms. _Damn it._

Jon- needs a statement. Something to fully lose himself in, for a little while. So he reaches down next to his desk and grabs the first one off the stack; a cursory glance tells him that it’s the Kelly statement they’d been working on. He presses play. 

“Statement of Moira Kelly, regarding the disappearance of her son, Robert.” 

Some time later, he’s finished recording and is leaning forward on his desk, fingers steepled, thinking. About Simon Fairchild. About all of these names that keep cropping up. These strange ties that seem to connect otherwise entirely unrelated events. Just like Jane Prentiss and the worms and _Martin-_

“Hey, boss?” 

Tim hovers uncharacteristically in the doorway, glancing back with a perturbed expression. “Tim? What is it?” Jon asks sharply. 

“There’s uh, Martin’s here to see you.” Tim says, glancing back to him. “He doesn’t look so-”

Jon immediately shoots up out of his chair. At that same moment, Tim moves out of the way for Martin to step into the doorway. Jon’s breath catches; he looks- _awful._ But he’s here, and there don’t seem to be any holes in him, from what Jon can tell. 

“Martin,” he says, breathes, really. 

Martin, pale and visibly harrowed and exhausted, gives him a weak attempt at a smile. “Hi, Jon,” he says. 

Before Jon’s brain can even register what he’s doing, he’s stepped around his desk and crossed the room in a few long strides and thrown his arms around Martin, pulling him into a tight embrace. 

Martin flinches in his arms. “Oh,” he says, barely a whisper.

“...I’ll be at my desk if you need me,” he hears Tim say, in a blessed show of delicacy. 

Jon’s brain has finally caught up by now, and before Martin can react further he quickly releases him, retreating back towards his desk. Martin is staring at him with wide, confused - hopeful? Touched? _Tired. -_ eyes. Jon coughs. 

“I, ah- I thought you’d been… eaten. By worms,” he explains. He picks up the stapler on his desk, for lack of anything better to focus on. Fascinating thing. Black. Plastic.

His attention is forcefully brought back, however, when Martin stammers out, “I mean, I, I kind of. Was? Well, not eaten, but almost.” 

Jon whips his head up. “What?” 

Martin nods, looking noticeably paler at the memory. “Yeah, so, those worms I’d been seeing around? ...Wait, wait- how did _you_ know-” 

“Oh. Right.” Jon pushes a hand through his hair, feeling suddenly drained. “I think we’d both better start at the beginning.” He goes back around the desk and takes his seat; gestures for Martin to take the chair across from him. Once Martin is seated, Jon asks, “Would you like to go first, or should I?” 

* * *

They both sit in silence for a long, tense moment after Martin, and then Jon, finishes speaking. Jon starts to tap his fingers on the desk, then stops himself, then starts again. Martin bears a serious expression, if a bit haunted, and looks around the room unseeing. Thinking. 

Finally, he says, “So. Not a demon, then.” 

“Presumably, no,” Jon answers. “Not that we have any proof either way.” 

“I mean, it wasn’t a bad guess, you have to admit,” Martin says. He absently reaches out and straightens a stack of papers. Chews at his lip. “And this- Jane Prentiss. God, she _texted_ you? On my phone? Told you I had- had stomach problems? For _two weeks?_ Really?” There’s a plaintive note in his voice. 

Jon nods and Martin hides his face in his hands. “Oh my god.” 

“It happens to the best of us,” Jon tries. 

Martin groans behind his hands. Then, seeming to realize there are other priorities at hand, he looks up again, wary. “So… she - it - whatever - was, what? Stalking me? Why?”

Jon sighs, agitated. Resumes drumming his fingers on the desk with renewed vigor. “That, I don’t know. These... things. Any of them. There doesn’t seem to be any pattern or reason as to why they choose the victims they-” He’s interrupted by his phone buzzing on his desk. He’s about to ignore it, when he sees that the incoming message is from Martin’s phone. Frowning, he says, “...Sorry, just a moment.”

He opens the message. It reads: _“Keep him, we have had our fun. He will want to see it when the Archivist's crimson fate arrives.”_

Ah. Lovely. That’s just lovely. 

“...Jon? What is it?” 

Jon shoves the phone in his pocket. Sits back in his seat and returns his eyes to Martin. “Ah- nothing. Nothing. As I was saying, most of these encounters are simply a case of wrong place, wrong time, it would seem.” He’s not lying.  

Martin doesn’t look like he finds that very reassuring. Jon hesitates, then reaches out and awkwardly places his hand over Martin’s where it lies on the desk. This finally seems to bring some color back to Martin’s cheeks, Jon notices. And his own too, he feels, when their eyes meet. 

Somehow, despite everything, Martin manages to give him a shy smile. 

Somehow, despite _everything,_ Jon manages to return it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand there we go! Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and thank you as always for reading! :) Come and say hi if you want at [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin Blackwood gets the love and support he deserves in the aftermath of The Worms, even if he's not particularly used to being the one taken care of. And also: soft.

It’s just over a week since Martin escaped his imprisonment, and he is currently sitting in the corner of Jon’s office with a takeout bag on his lap, waiting for Jon to finish recording. 

He hasn’t seen Prentiss since, thank god; no worms or any other sign of her, but it’s all still far too fresh and he doesn’t feel comfortable venturing out any more than he has to, not yet. Not while every shape on the ground still looks like a worm and every sound that even resembles a knock has him looking back over his shoulder in a panic. 

To his eternal gratitude, Jon is more than willing to have their lunches in the office; though Martin is going to have to clarify that this does not mean he gets to keep working straight through while occasionally stuffing a chip in his mouth. He lets slip a sound of fond, exasperated amusement, quickly stifled. Jon doesn’t pause in his recording, but flicks a sharp glance in Martin’s direction. 

It had been Jon’s idea, to begin with; them spending time here. Martin’s encounter with Prentiss seems to have shaken him surprisingly badly. Not that it’s surprising that he cares, of course not. Martin _knows_ he cares, even if Jon isn’t the most openly demonstrative. They’re friends, after all.

But that’s it: Jon _isn’t_ demonstrative. He shows his feelings in small quirks of his lips or softening a harsh tone or remembering a detail you’d almost forgotten, yourself. And yet when Martin had shown up in the doorway of his office that day, Jon had practically launched himself at him and hugged him - actually _hugged him_ \- like he thought he’d never see him again. Which, considering his suspicions about the worms, he may very well have. 

Martin smiles a little and absently rubs at his arms, remembering the warmth of Jon’s arms around him, Jon’s huff of breath against his neck when they’d collided, Jon’s hair tickling his cheek. Admittedly, Martin had been a bit too otherwise preoccupied by, y’know, trauma, to properly process it in the moment, but he’d had plenty of time to think about it since and had done his best to sear the memory of every fleeting second into his brain. 

A pleased flush creeps into his cheeks. It was nice. God, it was really, really nice. He’d love to do it again sometime.

He looks up when he hears Jon turn off the recorder and shift in his seat to face him. He rubs at his temples in what Martin recognizes as an attempt to dispel the post-statement fog.

“Sorry,” he says. He sounds drained. “That one went on longer than I expected.” 

Martin hops up and drags his chair over to the side of Jon’s desk. “No problem.” He sets the bag down between the two of them. “We _do_ need to have a talk about you abusing these office lunches, though. A break is a break.” 

Jon seems as though he’s about to protest, and Martin dares him to with a raised eyebrow and a stern look. At which point he wisely settles for a scowl and for fishing around in the takeout bag for his food. Martin laughs, then, and gives Jon’s wrist a quick squeeze as he reaches into the bag to take his own lunch. 

Moving on, Martin asks - for the third time this week - “Are you sure you won’t get in trouble for having me here?” 

Jon rolls his eyes. “You came to us with a statement regarding a supernatural encounter. As far as anyone needs to know, you’re here to provide additional details.” He steals one of Martin’s chips. “For- accuracy.” 

It’s probably meant to make him laugh, and it _would_ if Martin’s eyes hadn’t started to sting unexpectedly. It’s a silly thing to get all teary over, but he’s so tired, and- “...Thank you,” he says, letting his gaze fall to the desk. He notices his hands have become knotted in the bottom of his shirt, and he forces them to relax. “For- everything. For caring.” 

He hears a scoff from Jon and a rustling of paper - he gathers up their trash and tosses it in the bin. “We _are_ friends, Martin,” he points out, stiff and distant in that way he has but doesn’t mean.

Unbidden and poorly timed, Martin recalls that text he’d sent Jon before everything happened, and his intended follow-up. Jon hasn’t asked about it; Martin seriously doubts that he’s forgotten, but he’s become rather fixated on the worm part of the events. 

Which is just fine by him, honestly. He still intends to do it. He _does. Soon._ But whatever the result of that conversation, he’d personally rather it _not_ be against a backdrop of horror. Besides, he muses, it wouldn’t be fair to Jon. Not right now, when he’s trying so hard in his own way to make Martin feel better. Not the time. 

But soon. 

He gives Jon a warm smile.

* * *

“Lose track of time?” 

Melanie perches on the edge of Martin’s desk. He squints up at her, eyes burning from - god, how many straight hours? - of staring at a screen. A glance at the clock on his laptop tells him it’s a quarter past nine.

“Oh, wow.” He runs a hand through his hair with a sheepish half-laugh. “Guess so.” It’s true, more or less. Ever since Prentiss, he’s been throwing himself as deeply into his work as he can. In part as a distraction, and in part because-- 

“You trying to keep from going home?” 

Yeah. That. Martin falters. Turns back to his laptop, closing out his browser and shutting it down. “Um, well you know, it’s not exactly the most fun place to be right now. Obviously.” He forces another laugh, stands and begins stacking books and notes to slip into his bag. Melanie’s eyes are heavy on him. 

“You know,” she says, slowly, “If you need a place to crash for awhile…”

But he’s already shaking his head. “Thanks, really, but I feel like I need to face this, you know? Like if I- if I run away now, I’ll never be able to get past it.” He slips his bag onto his shoulder and faces Melanie, frowning. Trying to find the words. 

“The supernatural… it’s our job, right? It’s what I _do_ for a living. If I just, if I let this get to me… I guess I’m worried what else I’ll let get to me?” 

The look Melanie levels at him is serious, laced with concern. “Yeah, sure, that’s fair enough. But from the way you described it, this… thing that came after you is on a whole other level from the shit we run into.” She hops off the desk and follows him to the door. “Literally no one would blame you if you could never go back to that flat again. It doesn’t say anything about you. Except that you have some self preservation, maybe.” 

Martin chews his lip. “I know, I _know,_ I just-” He grasps the doorknob, braces himself for the world waiting outside when the door swings open. “Thanks, Melanie, really.” He schools his expression into something reassuring as she steps out beside him. “I’ll be fine. It’s only been a week.” 

She doesn’t look convinced, exactly, but instead of pushing the issue, she surprises him by dragging him into a quick side hug. “Fine. Take care of yourself getting home.” 

He’s been getting a lot of those lately. The warmth it leaves in his chest makes the trip a lot less harrowing. 

But then he’s back home and facing that dim stairwell, new phone gripped tightly in one hand and old pocket knife in the other as he forces his trembling legs to climb. 

He bites back a yelp when he reaches the top and sees a shadow at the end of the hallway -- just an old chair a neighbor had set out earlier in the week. Okay. Cool. 

...Nearly drops his key and then the knife in his hurry to unlock his door and get inside, finally slamming it behind him hard enough that the walls rattle. Flips the light switch - it _works,_ thank god. Locks the door behind him. Pushes his couch barricade back into place and runs to his bedroom and throws himself into the middle of his bed, shaking and trying to calm his hammering pulse. 

Once he’s gathered the nerve to set his feet on the floor, Martin sends Jon a quick ‘made it home’ text and begins the nightly ritual of painstakingly checking every inch of his flat for worms. 

His first check of the night.

It’s approaching two in the morning before he finally - after giving the bedding one more examination - climbs into bed, fully clothed and with the lights left on, a chair firmly wedged under his bedroom doorknob. 

He checks his phone and finds three texts from Jon, several minutes apart. _“Okay.” “I’m glad.” “Goodnight, Martin.”_

The tension Martin is carrying eases, just a little. “Goodnight, Jon,” he murmurs, and lets himself fall back on the mattress, exhausted. 

He doesn’t sleep. 

* * *

“Nothing so far,” Sasha is saying, “but Tim tracked down one guy who claimed to have a run-in with something resembling Prentiss just a few months ago. He got him to agree to meet for coffee tomorrow.” 

Jon nods. It’s something. Most of their other cases have taken a back seat recently to finding any available information on Jane Prentiss. The others had assumed his interest was vengeance-fueled, or some desperate attempt to protect Martin from further harm, which isn’t entirely untrue. They’d gone along with it at first, but when his urgency hadn’t begun to fade, Sasha had approached him to gently ask if he was alright. 

So he’d been forced to relent. He’d called Tim into his office, and had shown them both the text strongly hinting that Jane Prentiss had additional plans beyond terrorizing Martin. Whether she’d targeted him in an attempt to get to Jon - for whatever purpose - or if he truly had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, they can’t say. But for everyone’s sake, the three are in agreement that it can’t hurt to find out more.

Jon thanks Sasha and returns to his office. He glances at the clock; Martin should be here soon. A small stab of guilt lances through him; for not telling Martin about the text, certainly, but also for likely putting Martin in further danger by keeping him this close. 

Unfortunately, Jon has been told many times that he can be a selfish man. And right now, he selfishly wants to give Martin the greatest possible illusion of safety, and he selfishly wants him where he can keep an eye on him for his own peace of mind, and he very, very selfishly doesn’t want to risk… scaring him off. 

Which is a strong possibility if he finds out that there may be a whole lot more to this than one freak supernatural encounter. 

But it’s fine. It won’t come to that. It _won’t._

He can deal with this. They - he, Sasha, Tim - can deal with this. It’s what they do. Martin needn’t be troubled with it. He’s been through enough.

Jon is thankful to have his glum introspection interrupted by the sound of Martin’s voice. 

“--Yeah, thanks. I _am_ doing a lot better lately! It’s, you know, it’s better.” Sasha says something warm in response, and a moment after, Martin appears in the door of Jon’s office, traces of a smile still lingering around his eyes. 

Jon turns his own eyes back to the stack of statements on his desk, setting them aside and placing the tape recorder back in its drawer. He slides a paper bag of sandwiches over to take its place. “Martin,” he says. 

“Hi,” comes the answer, soft and familiar. Jon glances over at Martin as he sets his things down and gets settled in. Takes in the dark shadows under his eyes - deeper than when Jon last saw him, day before last - and the pallor of his skin. He looks exhausted. 

Jon starts to ask about it, then hesitates. This isn’t exactly his forte; nosy, worried questions are much more Martin, and it feels odd reversing their roles. However- 

“Have you been sleeping?” It comes out a bit more like an accusation than he’d intended, and Martin frowns.

“Um, yeah? I guess? Why?” 

...Taking care with his tone this time: “You look…” Jon gestures at Martin’s face. “Tired. Which I suppose is understandable. But I can’t help but... I guess I’m concerned.” 

“Oh.” Martin’s voice carries a pleased note, but then he waves Jon’s query aside. “I’m fine, Jon. I mean, yeah, I’m still not sleeping the best. You know, nightmares, getting up to check for-” he cuts off abruptly. Shrugs. “It’ll pass.” He takes a bite of his sandwich and turns his attention to a nearby statement. “This looks like a good one.”

“Martin.” 

“Hm?” Martin turns the statement around, doing a rather poor impression of scanning the page.

“Look, I…” Jon falters. “You want to stay in your flat. I understand. But I want to offer-” 

His offer is cut off by Tim striding into the office, waving a thick folder in his direction. He stops when he catches sight of Martin, brightening.

“Martin! Haven’t got to see you in a bit. Jon’s been running me all over London.” To Jon, “Don’t think I don’t know what your game is, boss. Keeping Mr Blackwood safe from my charms - very smart.” 

Jon glowers at him and doesn’t deign to respond, but Martin snorts. 

“Good to see you, too, Tim.” 

Tim drops the folder onto Jon’s desk, regarding Martin thoughtfully. “You know,” he says, “you ought to come out with us for a drink tonight. God knows you’ve earned it.” 

Jon watches Martin’s face cycle through surprised, pleased, and then finally, nervous. “...I don’t know…” 

“Come _on,”_ Tim urges him with a clap on the shoulder. “We haven’t hung out since the library party. And no offense, Blackwood, but you’re starting to look a little rough around the edges. You need a break from all the ghosts and worms.” 

 _“Tim-”_ Jon interjects on Martin’s behalf, but Tim hurries onward. “Hey, Jon’s coming, too. Aren’t you, Jon?” And here he gives Jon his brightest smile, one that says he knows damn well there’s no backing out. 

Ass. Jon’s eyes dart between the two of them. “Well. I’m really not-” 

But then Martin turns to him, tentative and hopeful. “Oh? Well, if Jon’s- I mean, if you _are-”_

...And Jon Sims is thoroughly defeated. His shoulders sag.“...I might as well. We could all use a break from- ghosts and worms.” 

“Then yeah, alright,” Martin agrees. He sounds the most eager that he has about anything since his encounter, and Jon is finding it considerably harder to begrudge Tim for it. “I guess I _could_ stand to get out. Gotta start somewhere.” 

Tim, for his part, looks very pleased with himself. “Great! Well, I’d best get back to it. We’re off at five, can you swing by then?” Martin makes an affirmative sound, and Tim gives a salute and a quick “See you” before turning on his heel and heading back to work. 

* * *

Jon is right in the middle of what could be a promising lead when Tim and Sasha drop in to collect him. _Five o’clock already,_ _hell._ There’s no way he’d back out now, for Martin’s sake, but that doesn’t keep him from grumbling about how ‘anyone manages to get any work done around here’.

Any residual frustrations, however, are forgotten the moment they push open the front doors and meet Martin coming up the steps. He accepts greetings from both Tim and Sasha and falls in step beside Jon. 

He casts a nervous glance around them, but still looks in the best spirits that Jon has seen him these past couple weeks. Tim, unfortunately, may have had a good idea.

Their arms and then their hands brush as they descend the steps, and he half expects Martin to apologize and take a step to the side, but no - he hasn’t been doing that, so much. Jon has been picking up on more casual closeness like this. Moments that normally would have been hastily rectified are let go without comment; moments that one would expect to be fleeting, allowed to linger. 

He realizes, of course, that Martin likely needs the extra comfort right now. Jon may not be good at providing that outright, but if walking a bit closer or the odd touch now and then can help, well. 

Not that he minds. He would, ordinarily; he _is_ one for his space, but- it’s Martin. It’s _Martin,_ and so aside from the way it makes it harder for Jon to find his words and makes his heart beat a little faster every time, it’s… nice. 

Their group arrives at the pub. Sasha takes a seat, Tim goes to order drinks, and Martin slides into the booth next to Jon, their thighs a warm point of contact. He’s talking animatedly with Sasha, now - something about a favorite movie they have in common - and Jon watches his face, the way he moves his hands. The way he’s _here,_ alive. 

It’s much more than nice. 

Tim returns and Sasha scoots over to make room for him, and the evening carries on. 

Jon is having an admittedly good time, and more importantly, Martin seems to be. He’s halfway into his second drink now and laughing at one of Tim’s infamous stories, and Jon hasn’t seen him warily check the corners once since they first walked in.

The peace lasts until Sasha recoils from something on the table. “Oh god, that’s huge!” 

Dread coils in Jon’s stomach before he even follows her eyes to the spot where, sure enough, a large, spindly spider is crouching in the shadow of his glass. 

Jon swears violently and jerks back away from it, nearly shoving Martin out of the booth. 

“Ow, _Jon-”_

“To be fair, that thing _is_ huge,” Tim adds, looking wary himself and not remotely helping. 

“Let me out,” Jon says, only just containing the panic in his voice. 

Martin quickly slides out and Jon squeezes past him, watching with wide, horrified eyes as Martin bloody _croons_ at the beast on the table.

“Hey there,” he’s saying, soft and sweet. He cups his hands, inching forward. “Come on, let’s get you to a nice dim corner, yeah? Somewhere safe and out of the way.” Jon flinches when Martin darts forward, bringing his hands down over the spider. Tim sucks in a breath and Sasha cheers, and Martin shuffles across the room to release his captive. 

“You’re a true hero, Martin,” Sasha declares upon his return, raising her glass. Martin grins as he settles back down. Turns to Jon. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Fine,” Jon says stiffly. 

“Come on, boss.” Tim leans across the table to lightly shove Jon’s arm. “The man just saved your life. The least you could do is show some gratitude.” 

Martin snorts. He picks up his glass, stares down at it, considering. “You know guys, I’ve been needing to have the spider talk with Jon for a while now. But it looks like the two of you could use one, too.” He takes a drink. “Nothing to be ashamed of; most people do.” 

 _“No one needs a spider talk.”_ Jon is fully aware of how desperate he sounds. 

Unfortunately, the rest of the assembled party seems to disagree. 

“I definitely need a spider talk,” Sasha says, agreeably. “I’d like to hear what the man has to say. I try to keep an open mind.” 

Tim gets up to get them another round, demanding _spiders_ upon his return, and Jon lets his head fall to the table. Martin and then Sasha both pat his shoulder. 

Once Tim returns and passes them their drinks, they all turn to Martin expectantly - well, Jon with long-suffering dread, more than anything, but - semantics. 

Martin takes another drink and clears his throat. “Okay, so: spiders.” Enthusiasm pours off of him. His words are just starting to slur, and his cheeks are pleasantly flushed. Jon would find it endearing if he wasn’t currently trying to convince the lot of them that spiders are their friends and should be welcomed into their homes and hearts. 

Things being as they are, however, Jon just finds himself going a bit pale. 

“Did you _know,”_ Martin is saying, gesturing for emphasis, “that mother spiders are actually incredibly doting?” 

That gets an ‘ugh’ from Tim, and Martin jabs a finger at him. “It’s sweet! They love their babies, and if she loses her egg sack, the mother will wander around for hours looking for it. She’ll _grieve,_ Tim.” 

Sasha looks stricken. Jon feels ill. 

“Not to mention how much they eat,” Martin continues. “We would be- we’d be _drowning_ in bugs without spiders.” He turns to Jon and says, very seriously, “You would be covered in bugs, right now.” 

“I’ll take my chances,” Jon deadpans. 

Sasha speaks up, already having been won over to the dark side: “By the way, Martin, have you heard about that one place? Where it supposedly rains spiders?” 

“Where it what?” Jon asks faintly. 

Martin brightens. “Oh! Oh yeah, well, see it doesn’t _actually_ rain them. But, um, basically, _thousands of spiders_ will build these huge communal webs across the canopy-”

“Martin.” Jon has had enough. 

“-and it’s really cool, because most spiders are solitary, right? There are only a handful of species th-”

_“Martin.”_

“Hm? Yeah, Jon?”

Jon takes a shaky breath, and a shakier sip of his drink. “You are- very charming like this, but could you _please_ shut the hell up about the spiders?” 

The table goes quiet, and Martin just. Blinks at him. Jon worries for a second that he’s hurt him, but then a slow, happy grin spreads across his face. 

“You think I’m charming?” And god, he’s _beaming._

Warmth floods Jon’s face. “I- well, I don’t-” he stammers, before finally relenting. “...Yes. Fine. Yes. In this moment. _But not for long if you don't-”_

He’s cut off when Martin slings an arm heavily around him and leans into his side, radiating tipsy happiness. This gets a chorus of ‘awww’s from Tim and Sasha, but with Martin pressed up against him and smiling _like that_ , Jon can only just manage a token eye roll in response. 

“No more spiders,” Martin promises. “For now.” 

Jon huffs and while he doesn’t quite relax against Martin, he does become marginally less rigid in his embrace. “...Thank you.” 

The rest of their outing passes pleasantly and, as promised, with no further spiders. Eventually they all say their goodbyes - Martin thanking Tim and Sasha for having him along - until it’s just Jon and Martin left lingering outside the pub. 

Jon can’t help but notice the wariness returning to Martin’s eyes and posture; especially jarring compared to how carefree and how _Martin_ he’d been all evening. It leaves an ache deep in his chest.

“Well,” Martin says, “I guess this is goodnight?” The smile he gives Jon is genuine, but all Jon can think about is Martin, alone and scared and not at all sober, going back home and passing the rest of the night in that damned flat. 

“No,” he says. 

Martin furrows his brow. “...No? Um, well, it’s getting late and I have work-” 

“I mean-” Jon looks away, shoves his hands in his pockets, reaching for the words. “You don’t have to go home. You can, er- come back to mine, if you want.” 

Martin makes a choked noise and Jon whips back around to him, hurriedly amending: “I don’t mean it like- I’m not... it’s not a proposition. Of _anything._ Other than coming back to my flat.” 

“Right,” Martin breathes. He lets out a weak laugh and scrubs at his face. “Right, no, I know, of course. I- um, why, then?” 

Jon makes an annoyed sound. “You obviously don’t want to go home tonight. Or- _any_ night. And as your… friend, I personally don’t feel comfortable with it either.” He drops his gaze to the pavement. “So. You can- stay. With me. If you’d like. I’d like you to.” 

The silence stretches on long enough that Jon finally ventures a look, and is alarmed to see a watery sheen in Martin’s eyes.

“Uh. Did I say something-” 

Martin laughs and swipes at his eyes. “Sorry, god, sorry, I’m just drunk, and…” The look on his face is soft and unreadable. “...Thanks. Thanks, I think I’ll do that. ...Just for tonight!”

'Just for tonight' isn't what Jon has in mind, but neither of them are in the state for him to argue right now. Martin sways and stumbles a bit, and so he darts forward to steady him, staggering himself under the sudden weight, and Martin catches _him_ with a breathless little laugh. They right themselves and loop their arms around one another.

“Let’s go home, then,” Jon says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thank you so much, everyone, always, for reading! You make this fic 1000x more fun to write. Come and find me at [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, if you'd like :)


	16. Chapter 16

They stumble into Jon’s flat not long after, and Martin gives the living room a cursory look while Jon locks the door. 

This is where Jon lives. This is where he spends most of his - unfortunately little - time away from the archives. The room is sparse, but lived-in enough; signs of life evident in the plate left on the coffee table and the coat slung over the back of the couch. 

Signs of _Jon’s_ life. Because this is his flat. 

Martin flusters, suddenly grateful that he got a sufficient amount of alcohol in his system before coming here.

Jon brushes past before turning to him, looking just as awkward as Martin feels, and maybe a little shy. Martin finds it heartening.

“So…” Jon says. He puts his hands in his pockets, only to take them right out and gesture towards the couch. “Have a seat while I get you- er. Do you want anything?” 

Martin hesitates, then makes for the couch. “Oh, no, I don’t-” He falls back onto it less gracefully than he’d hoped. The room spins. “...Actually, a glass of water might be nice?” 

Jon nods once and disappears into the kitchen. 

He returns a moment later with two full glasses, and sets them on the coffee table before seating himself next to Martin. He’s close enough that Martin can feel the warmth coming off of him, and as bold as Martin has been with the casual closeness lately, it shouldn’t get to him like it does. But they’re in Jon’s flat, on his couch, alone, and Jon smells so nice, and- 

He takes a big sip of water and firmly directs his thoughts elsewhere out of self preservation. 

“By the way,” Jon says, and his mouth is quirked in wry amusement. “I never thanked you for saving my life tonight.” 

Martin blinks at him, then remembers: the spider. He laughs. “No problem! Glad to help.” He sets his glass down and continues, “It was the least I could do, really. I know Tim sort of put you on the spot today, with, um, with coming out with us...”

Jon makes a noncommittal sound. 

“...But I’m glad you did,” Martin finishes. “It really did me some good, I think. Getting out again.” 

Jon’s expression goes soft in that way it’s started to do. “I’m glad.” He leans forward in his seat, thumb idly tapping against his knee. He's obviously getting ready to say something, so Martin waits.  

Finally: “You know, Martin... I realize you haven’t really talked about, well. Your encounter. Since you first told me what happened. Any- feelings, or-” He lets out a harsh breath. “I’m not very good at this sort of thing, but if you’d like to-”

“No,” Martin cuts in, perhaps too sharply. Jon looks startled. 

Martin’s hands are clenched in his lap. He forces them open, willing himself to relax. “I mean, thank you, Jon, I appreciate it, but. I’d really, really rather not talk about it. At all. Ever.” He laughs a little, without humor. “It’s about time I started getting over it, honestly? I can’t keep bothering you guys with this.”

When Jon doesn’t respond, Martin risks a look and finds him staring pensively at the coffee table, his brow creased and his mouth pressed into a flat line. Martin is about to apologize, worrying that he’s made things weird, but then Jon starts to speak. 

“When I was a child, I had… a supernatural encounter. I’d like to tell you about it. If you don’t mind.” He glances at Martin, something careful and vulnerable in his eyes. 

Martin sits up, at that. This feels important. “No, of course not. I mean, I don’t mind at all. Go ahead.” 

And then proceeds to listen with mounting horror as Jon haltingly recounts his childhood experience with a very cursed book, a very large spider, and watching someone undoubtedly get eaten by said spider right in front of him. 

When Jon stops speaking, he’s noticeably paler, and there’s a distant look in his eyes. Martin reaches for him without thinking, then stops, wavering between hugging him or not. He settles for placing a hand on his knee. Jon starts, then looks up. 

“Jon,” Martin tries, unsure what he wants to say to… _that._ “That’s- that’s horrifying. Beyond- I am so sorry that happened to you.” 

Jon stares at Martin’s hand on his knee, and then offers him a small smile. “It’s fine. I just- I suppose I wanted you to know that you’re... not alone.” He gets a pinched expression, clearly uncomfortable. “As I said, I’m not the best at this. But I thought it might help. To know that someone- that I understand.” 

Martin can only look at him, for what he realizes is probably an unnervingly long moment. Jon averts his eyes and shifts in his seat. Martin’s resolve breaks and this time he _does_ lean over and pull Jon into a tight hug. 

It’s uncomfortable, sitting side by side, with his body twisted towards Jon and Jon’s elbow digging into his ribs, and Jon makes a startled sound and tenses, and Martin should probably let go, but- 

“Thank you,” he says, muffled in Jon’s shoulder. He raises his head. “For- for trusting me, with that. For wanting to help, and you _have,_ and it _did,_ and-” He’s babbling, he knows it; a mix of nerves and overrunning emotion. Jon’s relaxed against him, at least, and Martin’s heart flutters when he feels him stiffly bring up his free arm to return the hug. 

“Thank you,” Martin repeats, little more than a whisper. “And, again, I’m so sorry that happened.” 

There’s no response to that, but there doesn’t need to be. They sit in their awkward embrace for a moment longer before Jon pats Martin’s shoulder, and Martin takes the hint and retreats to his side of the cushion, giving them each their own space again. He tries not to think about how empty his arms feel. 

Instead, he adds, “I… I might want to talk about it. About mine. Not tonight, because god knows I have enough trouble sleeping lately, but, sometime.” 

Jon studies him. “Alright,” he says, his voice quiet and soft. 

They lapse into a thoughtful silence, here in the dim glow of the table lamp and the lull of the street sounds outside. Martin lets his mind wander, absently glancing around the room, thinking over what Jon had just shared with him. He’s hit with a sudden, terrible realization. “...Oh, god. That’s why you hate spiders so much.” 

Jon, in the process of taking a sip of his water, makes an affirmative sound into his glass. 

Guilt forms in Martin’s gut. “I feel like such a dick now.” 

Jon snorts. He sets his glass down and turns back to Martin. “It’s fine, honestly. I wasn’t lying, earlier. In the pub.” He follows the the pattern in the couch cushion with his fingers. “When I said that I find it- _charming.”_ And Martin could swear he sees color rising in his cheeks, though that could be a trick of the light or his own hopeful imagination. 

“Oh,” he says, ever eloquent. Those same words had filled him with giddy warmth in the pub, surrounded by friends and caught up in the spirit of a night out. But here, left hanging in the silence of Jon’s flat, they leave him with something tremulous and quiet. And off topic.  “ _Still,”_ he hastens to add, “I’ll try to give you a break about the spiders. A little.” 

And Jon lets out a huff of laughter and the moment - if there had been a moment, and Martin almost thinks that maybe-- regardless, the moment passes. Martin can’t help wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t let it. 

Not the right time, though. Not yet.

He casts around for something else to fill the quiet, and an old clock on the bookshelf in the corner catches his eye. 

“It was my grandmother’s,” Jon explains when he asks about it. He gestures at the furniture. “Most of the stuff in here was left to me by her. That or picked up at thrift shops when I first moved.” 

That explains what Martin had taken for an unexpected taste in outdated florals and dingy orange. 

“It’s nice,” he lies. 

Jon raises an eyebrow. “It really isn’t. But it’s functional, and for the amount of time I spend here, I haven’t seen much reason to replace it.” 

Martin studies the couch they’re seated on, the faded floral pattern and heavy fabric. Thinks about Jon growing up sitting on this very couch. “You know,” he muses, “I don’t really know much about your life growing up.” He flushes. “I- I mean, aside from the, erm, what you told me a moment ago. Spider thing. But, other stuff. Stories. What you were like.” 

“There isn’t much to tell, I promise,” Jon replies, a wry note in his voice. “I read a lot. I didn’t have many friends.” He tilts his head, looking thoughtful. “Though, I suppose the reading didn’t start in earnest until my grandmother started bribing me with books.” 

From there, faltering at first but encouraged my Martin’s rapt attention, Jon recounts small pieces of his childhood. His insatiable curiosity. The more than one occasion that he had wandered off on some adventure and the resulting groundings he’d received from his grandmother, and how his love of reading had been cultivated by her trying _anything_ that would keep him in place. The long days spent on the beach, an old quilt spread beneath him and stacks of books all around him, reading until the light got too dim to see. 

Martin is enraptured by this glimpse into what made Jon the man he's come to care for so much. It fits. He looks at prickly, reserved, obsessive Jon, and pictures him as the solitary, curious, undoubtedly lonely child in these anecdotes, and it fits. He feels oddly pleased at how unsurprised he is; that he knows Jon this well by now.

And then Jon tells him with a hint of self consciousness, “I wasn’t always so boring. I was in a band in uni, believe it or not,” and that notion flies right out the window. 

Martin sputters out a startled laugh. “Sorry, you were- _what?”_

Jon looks indignant. “Is it that unbelievable?” 

“A bit?” Martin admits. “Well, not unbelievable. But how you do go from- nerdy bookworm to being in a bloody- a band? Like, was it a stereotypical college band?” 

“...It was in my rebellious phase,” Jon demurs. 

 _“You_ had a rebellious phase?” 

“Did you not?” 

“I didn’t, really?” Martin says. Then, “Wait, no, there was that time I dyed my hair black. Fancied myself goth, or something.” He laughs. “It was- _awful._ My mum was pissed, and it wouldn’t wash out for anything. It eventually faded to this ugly green.” 

And Jon is actually _giggling,_ leaning into Martin’s shoulder with breathless little huffs of mirth. “I would love to see that,” he says at last, seriously. 

“Yeah, I bet you would,” Martin grumbles. “But we’re getting off track! We were talking about _your_ embarrassing mistakes.” He shoves Jon’s thigh with his own.

Jon frowns at him, almost a pout, and it’s adorable. “Who said that it was a mistake? We did rather well, as far as an amateur band of twenty-year-olds goes. Georgie still has some pictures, I believe-” He snaps his mouth shut, eyes going wide. Realizing _this_ mistake all too late.

Martin raises his eyebrows. “Does she?”

“...No.” 

“You know we talk, right?” 

Jon takes out his phone, affecting distraction. “It’s getting late,” he announces. Martin snorts but his teasing response is swallowed by an unexpected yawn. 

“You’re off the hook for now. But only because-” he peers down at Jon’s screen, “-it _is_ getting late.” And they have work tomorrow. And ugh, great, he’ll have to leave early to go back to his flat for a change of clothes. 

They both just sit there. 

Jon clears his throat. “You, uh. Probably want to be getting some rest.” 

“Yep,” Martin agrees. “You too, I imagine.” 

Neither of them moves to get up and do something about that. Funny how saying goodbye is so much harder when no one will actually be going anywhere. 

A siren wails outside. The refrigerator hums in the kitchen. Martin shifts on the couch; it emits a low creak. 

“...I think Georgie sent me an old picture of the two of us, from years ago,” Jon says, at length. “If you’d like to see it.” 

Martin slumps with relief. _“Please.”_

And so the conversation blessedly picks back up - Jon talks a bit about his university days, which leads to his and Georgie’s shared custody of The Admiral. Martin tells him that he’d love to have a pet, if he didn’t have to be away so much; about how he likes most animals, really, but he thinks a cat might be nice. He used to be more of a dog person, but the prickly and aloof type has been growing on him recently. 

The night wears on, and their conversation gradually grows sleepier and less coherent. Neither of them acknowledges it again. 

* * *

Martin wakes with the sun in his eyes. He tries to open them, fails, gives up. Through the groggy haze of half-waking, it occurs to him that his right arm is asleep and his back hurts like hell. Trying to squirm into a better position yields little result, and his brain belatedly registers the odd weight across his body. Something tickles his jaw. 

This jolts him properly awake, and he forces his eyes open, fearing the worst. His racing heart continues racing for an entirely different reason when, instead of the expected writhing mass of worms covering his body, he finds- 

Jon. 

Upon closer investigation, he discovers that he is sprawled awkwardly against the arm of the couch, and Jon is curled up against him in a frankly painful-looking position. Painful for Martin, at any rate. Jon's knees dig into Martin’s hip, one of his elbows is jammed into Martin’s chest, and his face is shoved up under Martin’s chin. It’s- it’s not _remotely_ comfortable, _at all,_ and Martin knows his back is going to hate him for a week, at least, and he really should move, should wake Jon, should definitely not just keep lying here now that he’s aware, but…

But his mind has gone just a bit fuzzy at the very real fact that Jon Sims is warm and sleeping and peaceful on top of him, and he’s still just hazy enough, himself, to let himself cherish this impossible moment while it lasts. 

Which isn’t much longer, as Jon struggles to push himself up a moment after, a low sleepy noise in his throat. Then he bolts upright with a yelp and falls off the couch with a heavy thud. 

“Shit-” Martin scrambles up to check on him, and finds Jon lying propped on the floor, wide-eyed and panting, having just missed the coffee table. “Are you alright?” 

Jon blinks up at him. “I- ah-” He catches his breath. “You. Right. Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” He makes a disgruntled noise and rubs at his hip. “...I’m not used to waking up- not alone.” 

Martin nods, trying to calm his own rapid breath. Blushing at the open acknowledgement of how they’d slept. “Yeah, yeah me either. Um.” He tries for a lopsided grin to break the tension. “Good morning?” 

The glare Jon shoots him loses some of its effect with him sleepy and mussed on the floor. Martin can only smile wider at the sight, and finally Jon huffs and leans his forehead on Martin’s knee. “Good morning,” he mumbles. 

“You want some help?” Martin asks, stifling a giggle. He can’t help it; the situation is both absurd and fills him with so much fondness.

“That would be appreciated.” 

So Martin forces himself to his feet and god, there it is; the pain, the headache, his _back_ \- and after steadying himself, reaches down to pull Jon up with him. 

The night on the couch clearly took its toll on him as well, because he grimaces as he’s dragged to his feet and staggers forward into Martin’s chest. He stays leaning there - and Martin’s stomach does a little flip at that - while he fishes in his pocket for his phone. And swears. 

“What is it?” Martin asks, alarmed. Jon simply shows him the phone - it’s going on nine already. Oh. Right. Martin echoes Jon’s curse in agreement and takes out his own phone to let Melanie know he’s going to be late. 

Meanwhile, Jon has pushed past him and is shoving his feet gracelessly into his shoes. He picks up his bag where he’d deposited it by the door the night before, and turns to Martin. 

“Did you- need to shower, or anything..?”

Honestly, yes. But there’s no way Martin is saying that _now,_ so instead he just shrugs. “Nah, it’s alright. We should get going.” 

Jon checks his phone again. “I thought we could get breakfast.” 

Martin whips his head up from where he’d been leaning down to pick up his own shoes. “What.” 

“If you want to,” Jon hurries to add. “We’re both already late, and I’m honestly not looking forward to facing Tim any sooner than I have to.” He’s frowning so intensely that Martin almost laughs. Instead he just shakes his head at this ridiculous, surprising man. 

“That sounds really nice, Jon. Yeah, let’s do that.” 

* * *

That’s how they find themselves sat at a little corner table in the nearest coffee shop, rumpled and grimy and still in yesterday’s clothes.

It had occurred to Jon too late that he could have actually changed first, but his mind had been just a tad preoccupied with first: being late and a close second: waking up on top of Martin on his couch. 

And then proceeding to promptly fall on his ass; that occupied its own special space, too.

Looking back, past the initial alarm, it hadn’t been unpleasant. Well, his back and neck beg to differ, but… just waking up with someone. Waking up with _Martin_ specifically. He’d been warm and soft and smelling like whatever detergent he uses. A comforting smell, at least to Jon. At least now. 

As for himself, when is the last time he _overslept?_ He’s not even sure he ever has. 

They make scattered quiet conversation over coffee and pastries, but mostly Jon just watches Martin. He’s a mess; his hair is all stuck up on the side, his clothes are wrinkled, the pattern of the couch hasn’t entirely faded from his left cheek. It’s all new - so different from the versions of Martin he’s become used to, and Jon commits it eagerly to memory. 

He glances up from a careful sip of his coffee and catches Martin watching him back, and is almost embarrassed at the realization that he probably doesn’t look much better. Martin doesn’t seem to mind, though, and just smiles at him, soft and still a little sleepy around the edges. 

His fingers land on Martin’s when they both reach for the sugar packets on the table, and on impulse Jon lets them linger. Just to see. Martin stills. Looks at Jon, a question in his eyes. But instead of voicing it, he just laughs it off. “Sorry,” he says, and moves his hand. Jon’s feels oddly empty. 

“It’s alright.” His voice is too soft to his ears. He takes a packet of sugar. 

Martin heads back towards the counter when they make to leave. Jon follows him. “Are you still hungry?” 

“Getting some stuff to take in to work,” he explains. “I figure it’s the least I can do, coming in this late.” 

Jon hums his understanding, and stands idly by, waiting while the barista gets Martin’s order. 

“You know,” Martin muses, “you ought to get something for Tim and Sasha. Might distract them from their prying.” 

“If you think me bringing them scones is going to get me any fewer questions, you haven’t been paying attention,” Jon remarks dryly.

“...Yeah, okay, fair,” Martin says. “Well at the very least, take them something from me? As a thank you? For, you know, being so kind lately.” 

So Jon relents, and now they’re outside the shop, each carrying their respective boxes. 

“I’ll see you tonight?” he asks by way of goodbye. “I’m assuming you’ll need to go by your flat to get some things; I don’t know when I’ll be in, so I’ll give you my key-” 

“Wait, wait, wh-” Martin stammers, holding out a hand to stop him. “What are you talking about?” 

Jon opens his mouth to say something snarky, because _really, Martin,_ but then he realizes they hadn’t actually talked about it. Right. 

“...I may have forgotten to mention that my invitation for you to stay with me extends beyond last night.” 

 _“What?”_ Martin's voice is sharp and laced with frustration. “Jon, no. I told you I’m not- I can’t do that.” 

Jon swallows his own frustration. “Martin, look. I-” He exhales slowly. “Please. If you don’t want to stay with me specifically, then- at least find accommodations elsewhere. For- for me. It would put my mind at ease.” 

There’s a beat, and then: “I’m the one who’s supposed to do all the fussing,” Martin points out, stubborn.

Jon can be just as stubborn. “You don’t have a monopoly on _fussing,_ Martin.”

And Martin frowns and chews his lip, but his resolve seems to be crumbling. Eventually, he shakes his head, a fond if exasperated smile tugging at his lips. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, Jon, you win.” He doesn’t look happy, necessarily; more resigned than anything, but he doesn’t look _unhappy._ Jon notices the way his shoulders have relaxed just slightly, a degree of tension seeming to have bled out of him. 

“Good,” Jon says. “Oh, and- here.” He digs the key out of his wallet and holds it out to Martin, who takes it with that same small smile. 

“See you tonight, Jon.” 

The warmth those words leave in Jon’s chest follows him all the way to the institute. He finds with a touch of surprise that it doesn't annoy him the way it used to.

* * *

“Well, well. Look who decided to join us today!” 

Tim’s voice - already disconcertingly cheerful - greets Jon before his feet even reach the bottom of the stairs. 

He sighs internally and puts on a brave face. “Good morning Tim, Sasha.” 

“Morning, Jon,” Sasha calls over. It’s casual enough, but her eyes burn with curiosity as she peers at him over her laptop. 

Tim perches on his desk, smirking. “Wish I had the leisure to sleep off a night out. I didn’t realize you were such a lightweight, though.” 

Jon’s sigh manifests externally this time, as he closes the distance between himself and Tim. “I’m not,” he says, defensive. “I had a late night.” He drops the box on Tim’s desk without ceremony. “These are from Martin, for the two of you. As a thank you.” 

That, at least, seems to shut him up for a moment. “Oh?” He opens the box, raises his eyebrows in approval. “Nice. Tell him that any and all favors have been repaid.” Sasha has come over now, and Tim picks out a scone and passes her the box. 

Jon nods to the two of them, making a mental note to thank Martin for his admittedly brilliant distraction, and begins his retreat. 

“...Wait a minute,” comes Tim’s voice behind him.

Jon freezes. 

“Yes, Tim?” 

“...You were with Martin this morning?” 

Sighing for the third and likely not the last time this morning, Jon slowly turns around. “I believe that was implied.” 

Tim eyes him appraisingly. “You came in late, for, what, the first time ever? You were with M- oh my god.” Understanding dawns in his eyes. 

“I don’t know what you-” 

“Are you...” Tim looks him over, a broad smile spreading across his face. Jon squirms. “You’re in the same clothes from yesterday.” 

“Leave him alone,” Sasha admonishes around a mouthful of scone, but she, too, is looking at Jon with renewed interest. 

“Perhaps you can apply those observational skills to your actual job,” Jon snips, all too aware that it doesn’t carry the bite that it should. He turns on his heel and resumes his march towards his office.

“You’re in an unusually good mood,” Tim points out. 

Sasha, in an act of betrayal, agrees. “You _are_ in a good mood. Well, not a bad one.” 

“Your _job,”_ Jon reminds them.

“Congrats, boss!” 

Jon slams the door behind him, but not before he hears Tim gleefully tell Sasha to ‘pay up’. He groans and drops into his seat. He does _not_ want to know, though he has a sinking suspicion that he could guess.

Today is going to be _unbearable._

* * *

Martin is pleasantly flustered all the way to the Ghost Hunt office. 

Last night was- well. Amazing. He feels a bit silly for thinking so, but he’s a sap, and sitting next to Jon all night, talking until they fall asleep in one another’s arms - okay, painfully slumped against one end of the couch together, but let him romanticize it - has been the stuff of his daydreams for months. 

Sue him. 

And this morning… yeah, to be honest, that had been a little awkward. More than a little. But a couple hours removed and all Martin can think about is Jon’s soft hair against his jaw, and the way he’d looked first woken up, and the way he’d suggested they go to breakfast even though he was late for work and then that _moment in the coffee shop._ Because there _had_ been A Moment this time, when Jon’s hand landed on his. Martin is sure of it. There are only so many excuses he can make to keep his hopes in check, and he’s running out fast. 

And tonight he’s going back to Jon’s flat, to stay until- until he finds a new one of his own, he supposes. They didn’t really have time to talk about it. He’s been dead set against imposing on anyone, and his own private search for a new place hasn’t been the most fruitful so far, but he really is relieved to be getting out of his flat. Which might as well be the worms’ flat now, as far as he’s concerned. 

A shudder runs through him. _Back to more pleasant thoughts, please._

He’s going to be staying with Jon. Jon _wants_ him to stay with him. For his own peace of mind, he’d said. Martin smiles helplessly, fingers running over the key in his pocket. 

He’s still smiling when he pushes open the door to the office. 

“And where have you been?” 

The sharp query drags him abruptly back to the present. He looks up with a start to see Melanie striding towards him. Martin quickly lets his smile slip from his face.

“God, I’m sorry,” he says, and means it. “I had a late night and overslept.” He holds up the box of pastries. A peace offering. “I brought breakfast?” 

Melanie makes an unhappy sound, likely more for show than anything, and takes the box, looking mollified. She looks him over and wrinkles her nose. “You look like shit. Are you wearing the same clothes-”

“Yeah, yeah about that...” Martin laughs, nervous. He edges past Melanie towards his desk.

She passes the box off to one of the other crew members - they’d flocked over at the mention of breakfast - and follows him. “This is ridiculous," she admonishes. “You’re a grown man and can live where you want, obviously, but you have to see what a mess you are right now. Cut the macho bullshit already.” 

Martin is thrown momentarily by _ever_ having the words ‘macho bullshit’ used in reference to him. Then the rest of her words catch up to him, and he hurries to reassure her. 

“Oh! No, actually, I, um. I wasn’t at home. Last night.” He pulls out his chair and takes a seat. Opens up his laptop. 

Melanie frowns and tilts her head. ‘Oh. Where’d you go?”

He glances at her. Casually pulls up the last page he was working through. “I’m... staying with Jon now.” 

“Excuse me?” 

There’s an odd note in her voice, and Martin looks up again. Incredulity, that was the note. With a touch of deep, personal offense. 

She crosses her arms over her chest. “Everyone in this office has been badgering you about crashing with them, and you refused. And now you’re staying with _him?”_

Martin winces. “It was nothing personal, I swear,” he insists. “He just… he wore me down, I guess. It’s more for him, than me, really.” He reaches into his bag, feeling around for the book he’d stowed there yesterday. Got it. “He’s been worried.” 

Melanie pulls a face. “Well, I’m glad you’re out of that worm den, anyway. The others’ll be glad too.” She shrugs. “And I guess he _is_ your- whatever you guys are, now. And don’t you dare say ‘just friends’.” 

Martin opens his mouth to say “We _are,”_ but catches her stern look. To his relief, she spares him the trouble of finding an alternate response. 

“Thanks for the food, by the way. You’re a saint.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded sheet of paper and drops it on his desk. “Details about this new place I need you to look into. Get to work.” 

“I’m trying,” he hints, with a perfectly pleasant smile. 

She gives him a perfectly pleasant smile in return, then calls over to the others, “You guys better be saving some for me!” before hurrying back across the room. 

True to his word, Martin dives into his work, quickly making up for the morning’s lost time. That doesn’t stop him from periodically reaching for the key in his pocket. He runs his fingers over the cool metal and his stomach swoops. Eight more hours, _at least._ Eight more hours until he’s officially staying in Jon’s flat.  

Today is going to be unbearable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are well and truly into the They Both Kinda Suspect It But Neither Will Make The First Move phase of mutual pining. Beautiful. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and these two soft idiots. As always, you can find me at [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, if you wish :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin have their first day as roommates (oh my god they were roommates). It's as awkward, pining, and domestic as you'd expect.

Jon scowls at the door and drums his fingers on his desk, weighing the pros and cons of leaving his office.

On one hand, he forgot a vital piece of research on his last trip out into the archives, and he needs it now to complete his follow-up on a statement. On the other hand, Tim tried to high five him the last time and he doesn’t think he can handle another congratulatory insinuation. 

And Sasha- Christ, even _Sasha._...She hasn’t done anything unprofessional, of course, and perhaps it’s just his nerves, but he could have sworn she- smiled at him. Differently. When he’d passed her desk. It’s hard to explain. 

They’re just- happy for him, he knows. Though their happiness is entirely unfounded, and he really can’t see the point in being that invested in whether your colleague and his friend had--

Well. 

They mean well. 

He pushes his chair back and takes a grounding breath, bracing himself to brave the archives once again. 

Five minutes later he’s crouched over a storage box, rifling through the contents with mounting frustration, when he sees Tim’s feet approaching. He sinks to the floor, resigned. 

“Hey, Jon-” 

“For god’s sake, nothing happened,” he snaps. 

“...Cool,” Tim says slowly, “I was just gonna ask if you were looking for this.” There’s a rustle of paper and Jon raises his eyes to see that Tim is, in fact, holding out the file he’d been looking for. 

“...Oh. Ah- yes, thank you, Tim.” Jon pushes himself to his feet and briskly brushes off his knees before taking the proffered file. 

Tim studies him. “Hey, you know I can ease up about you and Martin, if it’s really getting to you.” 

“I would appreciate that,” Jon grumbles. 

Tim nods. There’s a stretch of silence. Jon is just turning to leave when Tim finally asks, “So… _nothing_ happened? Seriously?” 

“...We went back to my flat, and we talked. And- fell asleep.” Jon finds even that admission almost too much, and stares hard at the floor. “And that’s all that was _intended_ to happen,” he adds with a pointed glance. 

“Huh.” Tim looks thoughtful, and then to Jon’s dismay, the familiar teasing grin makes an appearance. “That’s actually kind of adorable.” 

 _“On that note,_ I do need to get back to work,” Jon hints, irritably. “Hopefully for the rest of the day.” 

He makes his flustered retreat without another word, Tim’s answering chuckle chasing after him.

It’s late when he finally leaves, even by his standards. Normally on a night like this, he’d opt to sleep in the archives, but, according to his texts, Martin has been at his flat for - he checks the time again; nearly three hours. 

Jon is surprised to find that he feels- nervous, actually, on the ride to his flat.

He clamps a hand on his knee to stop its agitated bouncing. It’s fine. It’s going to be fine. He likes Martin. Well, obviously. That much has been established. Martin likes him. Martin, for whatever reason, actively seeks to spend time with him, in spite of numerous efforts on his part over the past several months to sabotage it. 

It’s going to be _fine,_ and Martin _isn’t_ going to angrily pack his things after one week and storm out with a parting demand to never contact him again, because Jon is just that unbearable to live with. 

That’s ridiculous. 

He lets his forehead fall against the glass, watching the dark streets streak by and mentally running over all of the reasons this is going to work out. His fingers tighten painfully on his knee. 

It’s an alarmingly short list. 

By the time he reaches his flat, he’s just about convinced himself to tell Martin that no, actually, this probably isn’t the best idea, and he’ll understand if he wants to find other accommodations at the first available opportunity. Melanie will probably take pity on him. 

And then he knocks on the door, and there’s a creak of furniture and a thud of footsteps and the rattle of a key. The door swings open and then there’s Martin, smiling and breathless and shy. 

“Jon, hi, I didn’t know you were on your way,” he says, checking his phone. 

Jon steps inside and past him. “Sorry,” he says, setting his things down. “I got a bit caught up.” He glances back at Martin, takes in his mussed hair and the red mark on his cheek. The rumpled couch cushions and the books on the coffee table. 

Martin follows his gaze and then nearly knocks into him in his rush past him. “Sorry, sorry, I got to reading and fell asleep.” He lets out a nervous little laugh and starts fluffing up the cushions, looking deeply embarrassed. “I meant to straighten up before you got back.” He stacks up the books and returns them to their proper shelves.

“Honestly, Martin,” Jon grumbles, righting himself after dodging out of the way. “It’s fine. I do expect you to use the furniture.”  

“Yeah, but still.” But Martin gives him a sheepish smile and returns to the couch. “So, um. How was your day..?”

Jon toes out of his shoes and starts across the room. “Long,” he intones. “Tim and Sasha were rather… well. It doesn’t matter. They appreciated your thank you gift.” 

“Oh! Oh that’s good. I’m glad.” 

Silence falls over them; Martin sitting stiffly on the couch, awkwardly trying to pat down his hair. Jon standing in front of him, fidgeting with the button on his cuff. It’s coming loose. Again. 

He coughs and says, “...I’m going to go change. You can, too,” he adds, looking around. “If you, er- did you bring any…?”

Martin looks confused for a moment, then makes a quiet noise of understanding and points across the room, where a suitcase and a stack of old grocery bags are stuffed alongside the bookshelf. “Yeah, I put them over there. I hope it’s not too much?” 

“Of course not,” Jon scoffs. “If you want to change, the bathroom is on the right, only door. So, I’m going to- do that.” He gestures towards his bedroom and, well. Goes to do that.  

Once he’s safely behind his bedroom door, Jon pauses and leans back against it, taking a moment. Uncomfortable starts aside, here with Martin in his flat it’s suddenly a lot harder to remember his defeated reasoning from a moment ago. Perhaps he _doesn’t_ have to sabotage this before it has a chance. Imagine that. Georgie would be proud of him, he thinks wryly. 

He changes into an old What the Ghost t-shirt and some flannel pajama bottoms and returns to the living room. Martin is still sitting in the same spot on the couch and in the same clothes. 

He looks up when Jon settles down next to him. An odd expression flits over his face.

Jon frowns at him. “Is something wrong..?”

“No, no,” Martin assures him, but his voice being a whole octave higher says otherwise. “Just, um.” He waves vaguely at Jon. “Not really used to seeing you out of work clothes.” 

“Well, I’m not at work right now,” Jon says, peevish. 

Martin shakes his head. “Of course, I just mean- it’s, it’s different. Not bad.” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it all over again. Then he breathes out a laugh and says what they’re both thinking: 

“ _Christ._ This has been, _really_ awkward.” 

Jon snorts, slumping forward a little, some of the tension seeping out of him. “I’m glad it’s not just me.” 

“If it helps, I think it’s mostly me?” Martin offers. “Bit terrified of messing up and you having to, to kick me out and never speak to me again, or something.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” Jon says, privately ignoring the irony. 

Martin gives him a hesitant smile, not looking entirely convinced, and Jon presses, “I asked you to stay with me-”

“Guilted me, really,” Martin interjects. 

“I did _not-_ well, regardless,” Jon continues, eyes fixed on the coffee table. “You… know I like my space. I would never have offered to- share it with you if I’d had any doubts as to- as to whether-” He taps his fingers on his thigh. Exhales harshly. Maybe the damned words will come out with it. “...I want you here.” 

When he looks up again, Martin’s smile is much more genuine, and he’s not sitting quite like he’s expecting to have to get up and leave at a moment’s notice. Good. 

“Thanks, Jon,” he says quietly. Then he yawns. 

Jon blinks. How late is- oh. “Right. We should- you should get some rest.” He stands back up, decisive. “You can take the bed.” 

“What? No! Absolutely not.” Martin is aghast. 

“I fall asleep here or at the table most nights,” Jon says. “I don’t mind-”

“Well I do,” Martin interrupts. He’s leaning back away from Jon, arms crossed over his chest and his mouth set in a familiar stubborn line. “No. I’m already staying here and imposing on you. You’re not winning this one. Give it up.” 

Jon almost protests, but considering Martin’s expression, he thinks better of pushing his luck. He sighs. “...Fine. I’ll- go get you some linens.” 

It doesn’t take long to get Martin a makeshift bed set up on the couch. He hovers nearby while Jon arranges everything with studied determination, occasionally darting a hand in to help straighten something or move something else out of the way. This of course earns him several sharp remarks from Jon, but he, for all appearances, remains unfazed. 

“Well. Goodnight, I guess?” Martin says, after Jon drops a pillow onto the couch, finishing the look.

“Goodnight,” Jon agrees, absently smoothing the corner of a blanket. “Er- really, this time. I promise not to distract you with any uni stories tonight.” 

Martin hums, approving. “Good to know. As fun as that was, I’m beat, to be honest.” He takes a step towards the couch as Jon moves to step past him and they collide, stepping on each other’s feet.

“Sorry-” Martin begins just as Jon says _“Martin-”_

There’s an awkward shuffle before Martin finally grabs Jon’s shoulders and carefully pushes him aside. Jon makes an indignant noise, and Martin grins and sinks down on the couch. 

“There. That wasn’t so hard,” he says, mildly.

Jon is trying to glare, but huffs out a laugh despite himself.

 _“Goodnight,_ Martin.” 

“Goodnight, Jon.”

* * *

The sounds and smells of a kitchen drift into Martin’s subconscious, gradually coaxing him awake.

He blinks blearily around him, taking in his surroundings, alarm spiking through him for half a second when said surroundings are clearly not his bedroom. 

His eyes land on faded floral upholstery and a shaggy orange rug. Right, he’s staying with Jon. On his couch. His- he grimaces and shifts positions - admittedly really, really uncomfortable couch. He half regrets turning down that bed offer. 

The windows are dark, still; the only light in the living room coming from the glow of the kitchen. He twists sleepily around onto his side, peering over the arm of the couch- 

-Where he sees Jon in the kitchen, standing over the stove and prodding at something with a spatula. He hisses and jumps back with a muffled curse, bringing his hand up to his mouth and glaring at the stovetop before returning to it with renewed deliberation. 

He’s still in his pajamas from last night, and his hair is sticking up in places, and he just looks so utterly _endearing_ that Martin’s chest goes tight and he has to suck in a breath. 

Jon turns at the noise, squinting at him without his glasses. “Good, you’re awake. I, ah- _shit-_ ” he whips back towards the stove and turns it off, frantically scooping something out onto a plate. “I made breakfast,” he calls over his shoulder. 

Martin hums in response, not quite awake enough yet to form proper sentences. He pushes himself upright, stifling a yawn and rubbing his aching neck. He checks the time on his phone; not even six. Jesus. 

Still, _Jonathan Sims is making him breakfast_ and there’s no way in hell he’s going to complain about that, so he rises painfully to his feet and shuffles into the kitchen. 

Jon looks up at his approach and gives him a rueful half smile. “I, er, I realized I didn’t actually offer you anything to eat last night,” he explains. “So.” He gestures at the little round dining table, already set with plates and mugs. 

And Martin could melt, right here, right now. He thinks he might be, a little. 

“You didn’t have to,” he says, well, mumbles, really. “But, thank you. It’s really nice.” He takes a seat. 

Jon busies himself with gathering up some silverware, looking distinctly self conscious. “I’d reserve judgement until after you’ve tried it,” he cautions him, with dry self deprecation. “It’s- been awhile. I don’t have much occasion to cook for myself, most days.” He puts the food and utensils and kettle on the table and takes the seat across from Martin. 

They have a quiet breakfast - and it _is_ nice, Martin decides, it’s actually really good; Jon is depriving himself - as the rising sun begins to filter through the windows, and the sounds of the city coming awake outside fill the silence. 

Jon tries to get up to clear the table, but Martin isn’t having it. 

“No way,” he tells him. “If you think I’m just going to _sit here_ after you woke up and cooked breakfast for me-” 

And so Jon sits back down with thankfully little protest, sipping his orange juice - an unexpected beverage choice, and one that makes Martin smile - and looking out the window. 

Martin steals glances at him while he moves around the kitchen. It really is surreal, seeing him like this. He looks so much softer at the edges, younger; the last lingering traces of sleep smoothing all the little lines in his face that Martin has come to think of as just ‘Jon’. 

It makes his chest squeeze again as he stands over the sink, rinsing their plates. 

 _I love him,_ he thinks. 

Oh. 

The errant thought stills him in his task of washing his fork, and the water runs over his hands uselessly. He hasn’t really thought of it that way before. Not with the actual word. Yeah, he has _feelings_ for Jon, that’s been realized and fully accepted, but-

Yeah. He feels a helpless smile blooming on his face. He finishes the washing and shuts off the tap. Sets everything aside to dry. It’s true, he realizes. 

_I love him._

There’s a scrape of a chair and he steps out of the way as Jon stands up. He must see something in Martin’s face, because whatever he’d been about to say seems to die on his lips. 

“I…” He furrows his brow. “...I- I’m going to go get ready,” he says, quiet. Studying Martin’s face. 

“Okay,” Martin says pleasantly. “I’ll finish putting everything away.” 

Jon doesn’t move yet, though, and Martin’s heart rate picks up. Softer or not, Jon’s full attention is a lot first thing in the morning. But he simply gives him a quick smile and turns back to the counter. “What is it?”  

And then Jon’s hand lands on his arm, stiff and uncertain the way all of his touches are. Still, it does nothing to calm Martin’s racing heart.

“Martin...” 

He glances down at the hand, and over his shoulder at Jon. “Hm? Is- everything okay?” 

“I-” the hand is removed. “...Have a nice day,” Jon says at last. Before Martin can respond, he’s turned and left the kitchen.

Martin listens to his footsteps padding down the hall, to his bedroom door clicking shut. He blinks in confusion before finally resuming putting the damn plates away. 

 _I love him._  

Funny how this realization doesn’t carry any of the panic that realizing his initial crush had. Instead, it just feels- right. He is _in love with Jon_ and the knowledge settles warm and bright and comfortable in his chest, like it’s right where it belongs. 

He’s on the couch with his laptop when Jon eventually emerges, dressed for work but for his shoes and his hair still damp from the shower. It’s all Martin can do not to stand up and sweep him into his arms. 

“Hi,” he says instead, much more reasonably. “You off?” 

Jon startles, clearly having been lost in his thoughts. “Yes,” he says briskly. He stoops to slip his shoes on. “I’ll leave the key with you, of course.” Grabs his bag from where it lies against the wall and slings it over his shoulder. 

Martin opens his email, watching Jon surreptitiously while he waits for it to load. He hums. “You have a nice day, too, by the way.” 

Jon gives him a small wave in acknowledgement, making for the door. He pauses when he reaches it, turns around. He falters. “...Bye.” Then, without further ceremony, he’s gone. 

Martin settles back as comfortably as he can onto the couch - Jon’s couch, in Jon’s flat, where he’s staying, with Jon - and sets about getting some extra work done before he has to go in, himself.

All the while the words _I love him_ pulse through him in time with his heart. 

* * *

 It was- an odd morning, Jon muses to himself as he gets settled in at his desk. 

Not bad, necessarily, and he’s getting better at discerning the difference, but. Odd. 

The whole scene had felt incredibly… _domestic._ Intimate, in a way he only ever experienced with Georgie, back when they were dating and living together. 

It had made his breath hitch in his throat and it made him want to do it again. Change the variables over the course of days and weeks and see all the different ways they could experience the same shared morning.  

The thought makes him feel almost unbearably vulnerable. 

And- more than a bit absurd, really. Martin’s not- _they’re not-_ but even he, with his admitted lack of emotional insight, can’t deny that the denial is beginning to wear thin. 

Except that he can, and he will, because he can’t afford to be distracted any further right now.

He reaches into his bag to pull out the sheaf of pages he’d taken home last night to read over. Tim’s official report from his meeting with the man who supposedly encountered Prentiss. He pushes his glasses up his nose with a defeated sigh, preparing to look them over _again._

Unfortunately, Tim’s findings hadn’t contained any conclusive evidence for- well, anything. Aside from Mr Barnabas evidently having had a really bad time. 

Jon scowls down at the pages as if he can intimidate them into giving up something new. His desperation is growing; there’s been no new information whatsoever, and what’s worse, he saw three of those worms yesterday. On the steps, outside the institute. 

It’s about time; if he’s being honest, sitting around and waiting for her to make her move has been far more agonizing than any thoughts of what that move might entail. 

It’s still all a bloody damned mystery, but it was _something._

Unlike _this._ He flips through the pages viciously, jaw tight. He doesn’t know what to do, but he has to do- something. If she comes back - and she _will,_ she _is -_ and if anything happens to Sasha or Tim, or god, Martin again- 

He takes a series of slow, deep breaths in an attempt to stop his descent into total unproductive panic. 

There’s always Elias- and the thought immediately brings a scowl to his face. If he hears that patient, patronizing _“Record and study”_ one more time- 

No. He can’t go to Elias until he has something concrete. And even _then_ it might be pushing it to hope for any real help from the lazy bastard. 

Jon sighs loudly. His knee starts to bounce and cracks sharply against the underside of his desk and he hisses in pain. Right. He needs to calm down.

Resigning himself to the fact that he’s completely and helplessly stuck right now, he grabs a statement off the never-shrinking stack and clears his throat, reaching for the tape recorder at the edge of his desk. 

* * *

Martin looks around warily, checking the grass before each step and scanning the trees overhead. He checks and double and triple checks his favorite bench before finally settling down onto it. 

Today is his first time in weeks really going anywhere on his own, aside from work or the institute or his flat. And he’s still not sure he’s entirely ready, but spring is coming, and it’s a beautiful day, and he’ll be damned if he lets Jane Prentiss take that away from him. 

He privately commends himself on his feat and takes out his notebook and pen. It’s been too long since he properly wrote anything, and his mind is overflowing with inspiration in light of recent events.

...Good inspiration. Good events. He’s _not_ writing about the worms. 

He thinks of all the unexpected kindnesses he’s received, and of new friendships forming, and of Jon, always of Jon, and the fresh buds on the trees and the new green grasses, and lets his mind fall into poetry for awhile. 

He’s just completed a rather flowery poem about the shadows in Jon’s hair and beneath his eyes - not bad, either, he thinks - when he stops to check the time. Yep, time to head back to work. 

 _This was good._ He smiles softly while he puts his things away. _This was really good._

Back on his feet and venturing out once again, his heart starts pounding in his ears. Still, he manages to go every third step or so without checking the grass and pavement. Or, well, not checking it as thoroughly. 

He really can do this. Maybe he’ll even join that woodworking class coming up, after all. Or maybe needlepoint. He shrugs. Maybe both, why not? 

After work and still feeling bolstered by his earlier success, Martin decides to stop by the supermarket. He’d checked Jon’s fridge and pantry before he left and found it disconcertingly sparse. Which is fine, and you know, maybe he just hasn’t been able to go shopping yet, whatever, but it doesn’t suit Martin’s purposes tonight at all. 

Because tonight, he’s going to make dinner. 

It’s the absolute least he can do, after all; not just in exchange for this morning, but just- just for all of it. And just because. 

 _Nothing too complicated,_ he thinks, pushing his cart along the aisles. For one thing, he doesn’t want to clutter up Jon’s kitchen with a bunch of ingredients he might not want. And for another, and most importantly, Martin would really like to increase his odds of success as much as possible. 

Nothing complicated. But nice, something nice. 

He grabs some vegetable stock off the shelf when he spots it; no idea yet what he’s going to make, but you can never go wrong with vegetable stock. 

He sends Jon a text as he’s checking out- _“What time are you coming back?”_ It's half an hour and a cart full of ingredients later, and it turns out he’s making curry. So much for uncomplicated, he thinks with wry amusement. But he knows for a fact that Jon likes it, or, well, that he likes it when it’s _good._ So. Hopefully Martin’s will be. Fingers crossed. 

Jon hasn’t texted him back by the time he arrives back at the flat, but he’d expected that, really. He hauls everything up the stairs - proud of how his stomach barely churns at the thought of what might be waiting at the top. Drops his bags onto the kitchen table once he’s inside, takes out his phone and pulls up the recipe he has in mind, and puts on some music, and gets to work.

It’s pleasant. Really lovely, actually, cooking for someone else for a change. 

His phone buzzes on the counter just as he’s finishing the rice. A response from Jon. _“Now.”_

Martin smiles, then turns back to his creation. So far, so good. He sets the stove to simmer and starts setting out plates. Then, finally, he takes the single sunflower he’d bought from a little corner stall on his way back, puts it in a pitcher he’d found under the sink, and sets that in the middle of the table. 

He steps back and examines the set up with a critical eye. 

Perfect. 

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, nervously straightening the cutlery and turning the pitcher, trying to find the best angle for the sunflower, when he hears a knock at the door. 

Jon gives him a mumbled greeting when the door is opened, and brushes past him to sink onto the couch. 

Martin shuts the door and follows him, concerned. “Jon?” He looks- exhausted. Stressed to hell, actually, the line of his shoulders tense and agitated. “What’s wrong?” 

When there’s no response, Martin carefully settles onto the coffee table across from him. “Hey.” 

Finally, Jon stirs and looks up at him; quickly shutters whatever expression had been there and waves him off. “Fine. Just- a long day.” 

Obviously. Martin wants to ask, wants to push, but instead he just says, “Well, I made dinner?” 

“I’m not h-” Jon starts automatically, then stops. Glances towards the kitchen, then back at Martin. The lines of his face relax slightly. He lets out a breath. 

“That actually sounds wonderful, Martin,” Jon says at length. 

“Great!” Martin stands up and offers Jon his hand, who only hesitates for a second before allowing himself to be pulled up. 

“I’ve got everything ready, and you’re right on time,” Martin is telling him on their way into the kitchen. Watching the rest of the tension smooth away. He keeps talking, hoping to distract him from whatever is bothering him so much, chattering a bit about his day while Jon settles in at the table. He catches Jon smiling, bemused, at the sunflower. 

“Oh,” he says, flushing a little and hoping it’s not too much. “Yeah, that. I just, um. I thought it would brighten things up? No offense, but your grandmother and thrift store aesthetic isn’t the most welcoming.” 

Jon laughs at that, and Martin feels _himself_ relax, finally. 

“Besides,” he continues, “It’s yellow, and I know you like yellow, so…” He finishes getting their food set out and their glasses filled and takes a seat. 

He looks up to find Jon watching him, something carefully unreadable in his face. “...I do like it,” he says. “It’s- lovely. Thank you.” 

Martin gives his arm and gentle squeeze. “You’re welcome, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! :) I hope you enjoyed the chapter and these two continuing to be disgustingly in love but not fucking saying anything about it. As always, I am [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to come and yell at me to make them kiss already, damn it.


	18. Chapter 18

Martin holds up two shirts side by side, then checks himself out with each of them in the mirror. He picks the yellow one and puts the other back, then moves on to explore the next rack. He’s down quite a few items of clothing in the wake of The Worm Incident, having used most of them to seal his flat and subsequently, well… getting worms on them. 

It happens. 

He’s not getting too much, just a few basics; Jon was kind enough to offer him a drawer that he isn’t using, but Martin still doesn’t want to overdo it. He’ll restock properly once he’s got his own space again. 

“You still coming with me to Georgie’s?” he asks Jon, who is eyeing a particularly ugly jumper with interest. Georgie had been trying to arrange for Martin to be on her podcast again for weeks, and this Saturday their lives finally aligned - no intervening work or worms in the way.  

Jon makes a distracted sound. “Mm. Yes, I’m coming.” Martin watches him frown minutely and run his tongue over his teeth, and then finally nod to himself, once, and take the jumper off the rack. He returns to Martin’s side, looking quietly pleased at his terrible find. 

Martin cringes internally and turns to hide a smile. 

The shop is practically empty; Martin had made sure to get here as soon as they opened to avoid the crowds. He’s… not fond of crowds, right now. All the people brushing past you. Dozens of tiny, creeping touches--

He shudders and puts back the work slacks he’d picked up. Not a fan of khaki, either. Especially that pale, silvery (wormy) shade. 

Aside from getting briefly sidetracked by that single terrible jumper, Jon follows along quietly. Martin had asked him to come along, under the guise of ‘wanting some company’, even though he really is mostly fine with going out alone, again. In truth, he’d just felt a bit uneasy leaving Jon in the flat by himself, today. 

He’s been- off, somehow. Distant. Even for Jon. When he’s at home, he’s quiet. Locked in his room poring over stuff he brought from work, mostly. Sometimes Martin can hear him pacing at night, can hear his heavy, frustrated sighs. 

He shoves back a surge of irritated worry. He knows Jon. Knows how he gets. That he tends to be closed off, that’s nothing new and he can deal with it. But- alright so he’s got rather used to Jon being less closed off with him in particular, and damn it, it bothers him that Jon so obviously has something bothering _him_ and refuses to bloody talk about it. 

“Are you alright?” 

Martin blinks and looks up from where he’d apparently paused, hand poised over a pair of socks. Jon is studying his face, looking at him in that intent way that makes Martin feel like he can see straight into his thoughts. 

He hurries to reassure him. “I’m good, sorry, just - trying to decide. On some socks.” 

Martin knows that he has a tendency to be... overbearing. He just needs to give him time. Space. Especially now that they’re sharing a flat. 

Jon will open up to him when he’s ready. He always does.

He can still feel _those eyes_ on him, so he resumes examining the socks with interest. He picks up a pair with a banana print and holds it up to Jon. 

“What do you think?” 

Jon wrinkles his nose - as if he has any room to talk _at all_ \- and Martin laughs and adds them to their haul just for that. 

They eventually leave the shop and head back h- to Jon’s flat. Martin is proud of himself; his heart doesn’t even race at all when they pass a woman with a mess of black hair on their way up the stairs. His heart _does,_ however, flutter a bit when he pulls out the key that Jon had made for him. 

They drop their things off and head back out and a half hour later, Georgie is pulling Martin into a tight hug. “Glad you could make it!” she says, leaning back and looking him over with consternation. “How have you been?” 

Momentarily taken aback at the outpouring of affection, he stammers out, “Oh! Oh, I’m- I’m alright, yeah. Good. Better.” He gives a shy half laugh and rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck. 

Georgie pats his arm. “Good. I’m glad. Jon’s been such a mess over what happened, that I wasn’t sure what kind of shape I’d find you in.” 

 _“Georgie,”_ Jon hisses. 

“Jon,” she says back, brightly. She links her arm with his and ushers them both inside. “Almost had to block his number a couple times.”

Georgie scoops up the Admiral and perches on the arm of the couch. Jon sinks down irritably on the far end, cheeks dusted pink and resolutely not looking at any of them. 

“Um, thanks for having me, by the way,” Martin says, still thrumming with surprised happiness at Jon _being a mess over him, to other people,_ evidently. “Sorry it took so long to get together.” He sits down in the middle of the couch. 

“Are you serious? You-” Georgie is interrupted as the Admiral squirms in her arms, and she releases him to stalk across the back of the couch towards Jon. “Anyway. You were under siege from a, what? A worm lady? I’d say that’s a valid scheduling conflict. Besides,” she adds, “Every week I have people asking me to bring you back. Trust me, you’re doing me a favor.” 

She heads towards the kitchen. “Getting us some water,” she calls back. 

Martin takes the opportunity to look over at Jon, who looks significantly less disgruntled now with the Admiral curled up next to his head and grooming his hair with determination. He snorts softly and reaches back to curl his fingers into soft fur, a small, contented smile tugging at his lips.

It makes Martin absolutely melt. _Maybe we can-_

Ah.

He’d started to think ‘Maybe we can get a cat’, but he doesn’t even have to remind himself of all the ways that’s getting ahead of things. Mentally chastising himself for the slip of his thoughts, he scoots over to content himself with petting _this_ cat, instead. His fingers graze Jon’s hair in the process, and he looks up at Martin sharply, still faintly flustered from a moment ago. 

And Martin’s thoughts are particularly unruly today, apparently, because it occurs to him - _here on someone else’s couch and with her literally in the next room_ \- what a perfect position this would be for him to kiss Jon.

He’s not going to, obviously, of course not. That would be- but the thought is there and it brings a rush of heat to his cheeks. Jon’s brow creases with confusion. Martin sees him swallow, sees him look as if he wants to speak, but at that moment Georgie returns carrying two glasses of water and he turns abruptly away with a quiet cough. She eyes the two of them without comment. 

Martin wavers between conspicuously moving away and continuing to sit conspicuously close, and instead settles for just. Awkwardly. Leaning away from Jon. Perfect. Georgie raises an eyebrow and glances once more between them, then hands him a glass. 

“Ready?” she asks, cheerful and mercifully ignoring the tension hanging over the entire room. 

“Ready!” No one has ever pushed themselves to their feet more casually. Martin coughs and makes deliberate - but casual - eye contact with Georgie. Smiles. Takes a sip of water.

“...Great.” She turns to Jon, who has dragged the Admiral onto his lap and is petting him with studied deliberation. “We’ll be back in a bit,” she promises. 

Jon makes a noncommittal sound and pets the poor cat even more deliberately, earning him an irritated _mrrp_ in response _._  

Martin follows Georgie into her spare-bedroom-turned-makeshift-recording-studio, not daring to look back. 

* * *

“So,” Georgie begins conversationally, once they’re inside, “How’s domestic bliss?” 

Martin chokes. “Sorry?” he squeaks. Forcing his voice back into a normal range, damn it- “I mean, um. Sorry?” 

“Rooming with Jon,” Georgie clarifies, her voice deceptively light. She’s moving around the room, getting things set up, so Martin can’t see her face. But he can _hear_ the amused smirk. 

“Right, right, it’s, um.” He takes a sip of water, and then takes a seat at the table in the center of the room, carefully avoiding a mess of wires. “It’s good,” he says. “I’m mostly just glad to be out of my flat.” 

“Yeah, I can imagine,” she agrees. She sets her laptop on the desk and flips it open. “...I hope Jon isn’t giving you too much trouble.” 

Is that fishing? It sounds like fishing. “Not really?” he muses. “I mean, he’s _Jon,_ yeah. But, no. He’s- he’s great.” He realizes belatedly how soft he’d let his voice go, and clears his throat. Takes another, much longer, sip of water. 

Georgie still isn’t looking at him, occupied with something on her laptop. 

“I mean-” Martin chews his lip. Drags his finger through a stray droplet on the table. “I mean he’s not _perfect,_ obviously. He’s- well, you know how he is. He’s stubborn, and dismissive, and rude, and-” _And I love him,_ comes the ever present thought. 

Georgie _does_ look at him now, eyebrows raised and a bemused look on her face. 

Martin blinks at her. “What is it?” 

“Nothing.” She gives him a smile and adjusts her mic. Takes a sip of her own water. “He’s really glad to have you there, you know.” 

“Oh. I mean, yeah, that’s good to know.” He laughs. 

“Alright. Let’s get started, then,” Georgie says, and the odd subject is dropped, to Martin’s immense relief. 

The recording goes well. It felt good to just sit there and talk for a while about something he’s knowledgeable about. To know it’s going to be acknowledged. 

Jon ordered takeout while they were busy and it had just arrived shortly before they came out. Martin had watched with no little amusement while Jon and Georgie bickered over whether she was paying him back or not - “You paid last time,” he’d pointed out. “Right,” Georgie had shot back, “And you think and I just never find the money you slip under the cushions when I’m not looking?” - and now they’re all squished together on the couch, he and Georgie each on one side of Jon, finishing up their meal and chatting. 

The Admiral is stretched across the back of the couch, contentedly asleep. 

“God, I’m feeling nostalgic,” Georgie is saying around a mouthful of noodles. “Reminds me of uni, I think. You know, minus the shitty dorm smells.” 

“Better noodles,” Jon points out. 

“Hey, don’t diss the instant ramen,” she says, shoving his knee with hers. “That stuff is the reason we’re alive, after all.” 

That reminds Martin of something, and he sits up suddenly. “Hey, Georgie, speaking of uni,” he says. She looks over at him. He bites back a mischievous smile. “Uh, Jon told me he was in a band, for a while?..” 

A slow grin spreads across Georgie’s face. A pallor comes over Jon’s. 

“He was!” she confirms. 

“Georgie…” Jon warns. 

“I have pictures, actually.” 

_“Georgina.”_

_“Jonathan.”_

She’s already set her carton down and pushed herself to her feet. “Be right back,” she promises. Jon groans and flops back against the couch. 

“Seriously, Martin?” Jon asks - well, whines, almost. The look he gives Martin is stuck someplace between pleading and _withering._

“Hey, it was an innocent question,” Martin defends himself, knowing full well that he doesn’t look or feel remotely innocent right now. “You’re the one who told me! Of course I’m curious.” 

Georgie sprints back into the room a moment later, beaming and holding aloft a large photo album. She plops herself down next to Jon and flips it open. Martin cranes his neck to look. Jon buries his head in his hands. 

“Let’s see…” She flips through the pages, skimming over the photos. “Right! Here we go.” She passes the book to Martin. 

“Do I not get any say in this?” Jon intones, muffled. 

“Nope,” Georgie replies cheerfully. 

Martin takes the book, balancing it on his knees. And then just- stares. He isn’t sure what he’d expected to find in the photos, aside from a vague glimpse into Jon’s earlier life. Something awkward and ridiculous, sure. And, yeah, okay, it _is,_ but- 

“Oh,” he says. 

He spots him immediately; even years removed and blurry and standing crowded together on a stage with a group of other grungy college kids, he immediately picks out that familiar stiff posture and irritable frown. Even with the considerably longer hair, and the _eyeliner,_ Jesus, and- are his ears pierced? How did Martin never notice?-- 

“Right?” Georgie is leaning across Jon’s back to see which ones Martin is looking at. 

“Do you _mind?”_ Jon grumbles, and gets up to sit primly on the coffee table instead. Curiosity seems to overcome his humiliation, however, because he leans over to peer at the book on Martin’s lap. He pulls a face. “I can’t believe I was so-”

“Hot,” Martin supplies, without thinking. 

Jon makes a choked sound, and Martin whips his head up, mortified. Frantically: “I mean- alright look, you _were-”_

“You were,” Georgie agrees. 

“You’re fine now, too- _more than fine-_ erm, _”_ Martin hurries to amend, and definitely only making it worse. 

“Yes. Thank you, Martin,” Jon cuts in stiffly, having turned a very interesting shade and staring hard at the floor.

Martin is sure his complexion is equally interesting. “Right. Yeah. Of course.” There’s a beat, an agonizing stretch of silence. He can feel Georgie watching the two of them, but he doesn’t dare look up. The margins of the photo album, though? Fascinating. 

Eventually, Georgie lets out a long-suffering sigh and scoots over next to Martin. She flips the page and points out another photo. “This was always my favorite,” she says.

It’s Jon, the same Jon as in the other photos, sitting squeezed together on a ratty couch with a younger and more punk-looking Georgie. He’s got his arm around her and a guitar slung across his back and he’s looking at something off to the side, smiling broadly and eyes crinkled in laughter. He looks impossibly young, and impossibly beautiful, and impossibly _Jon,_ despite all the differences, and it takes Martin’s breath away. 

“Oh,” he says, again, for entirely different reasons. 

His heart aches with a longing to make Jon smile like that. 

He looks up to find Jon watching him, still deeply flustered, but something soft and surprised held behind his eyes. 

Then Martin remembers himself, and hurries to tell Georgie, “Yeah, I really like this one.” 

They pass the afternoon looking at the rest of the photos, Georgie gives plenty of humorous context; and Jon joins in eventually, sharing his own anecdotes. Martin keeps feeling his eyes on him, though, whenever he’s busy looking at a new photo. Keeps catching glimpses of that same thoughtful expression.

* * *

Jon isn’t sure when he woke up, but he’s been lying awake for some time. Thinking of the bloody worms, always, thinking of Jane Prentiss, thinking of statements, thinking of- Martin. 

Thinking of that loudly quiet _something_ that hangs between them now. That he only lets himself think about when he’s alone in his bed at night, where he can lose it to sleep and it won’t get in the way. 

Georgie had sent him a text after they’d left her place earlier - _“Fyi, you guys are infuriating.”_

Jon hadn’t deigned to respond. 

He sighs heavily and turns over in his bed to try to sleep again when he notices the yellow light streaming under his bedroom door. He feels blindly around for his phone, squints at the screen. Almost one in the morning. 

Padding quietly out of his room, Jon looks around. The couch where Martin sleeps is empty, the pillows bunched up and the sheets tossed haphazardly aside. The light, he discovers, is coming from the kitchen. 

And in the kitchen, he finds Martin, a wad of paper towels in one hand, a bottle of cleaner in the other. He’s scrubbing vigorously at the counters. 

Jon frowns. “Martin..?” 

Martin yelps and whirls around, dropping the bottle with a loud clatter and stumbling back. He catches himself on the counter, breathing hard and staring at Jon with wide eyes. 

“Jon! God, you scared me,” he pants. Then, guilt flashing across his face, “Shit, did I wake you? I’m so sorry.” 

“What are you doing?” Jon asks. He enters the kitchen - the absolutely _sparkling_ kitchen - and picks up the spray bottle that Martin had dropped. He sets it on the table. 

Martin gives a nervous laugh. He turns and bins the paper towels and returns the bottle to the cabinet. “I couldn’t sleep,” he explains. “Figured I might as well make myself useful. Um, I hope you don’t mind?..” 

Jon studies him as sharply as he can without his glasses. He can still see from here how dark the shadows under Martin’s eyes look, the sheen of sweat drying on his skin. “Are you still having nightmares?” 

He looks startled, like he’s about to deny it, then just sighs, deflating. “A bit? It’s- it’s stupid. Everything else is getting easier. I’m fine, I’m honestly _fine,_ but.” He shrugs. “Try telling that to my subconscious, I guess.” There’s a bitter, defeated note to his voice, but he quickly covers it with a huff of laughter. “Plus, no offense? But your couch is _awful._ I think I’ll get an air mattress, if you don’t mind?” 

Jon doesn’t respond to that. He frowns and looks down, brow furrowed. Thinking. 

Martin seems to mistake him, because he stammers out, “God, sorry, that was rude, I- look, I really do appreciate it. I’m just tired. I’ll just...” He starts to hedge his way around Jon, back towards the living room. 

“Take the bed,” Jon blurts out, decisive. When Martin freezes, staring at him, he clarifies, “...It may not help with the nightmares, but it’s- somewhere more comfortable to have them. One less problem, at least.” 

Martin is already shaking his head. “Jon, I’ve told you. I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed. Especially now that _you’re_ admitting your couch sucks.” 

“You, ah-” Jon presses his lips into a line. Takes a breath. Tries again. “We could share.” He presents it lightly, casually. 

This doesn’t stop Martin from gaping at him, scandalized to a degree that’s almost offensive. 

“...Or you could just say no,” Jon mutters. 

 _“No,”_ Martin almost shouts. “I, I mean, not ‘no’, like that, but. If I’m not kicking you out of your bed, I’m definitely not making you _share it with me.”_

Jon makes an exasperated sound and rakes a hand through his hair. “You wouldn’t be _making me_ do anything. Besides,” he points out, reasonably, “it’s not like we haven’t slept together before.” He flushes as the words register. “On the couch. That time.”

“Right, right,” Martin closes his eyes and tilts his head back. Like he can’t quite believe this conversation is happening, and not in a good way. After a moment, he turns his eyes back on Jon, serious. “That was an accident, though, Jon. Look, I’ll be alright. I’ll get something tomorrow. You can’t possibly-”

“Martin.” 

“-I’m already imposing enough, alright? I’ve been here over a week and haven’t even started looking for a new flat, _Christ-”_

_“Martin.”_

_“What?”_

Jon huffs irritably and glares at the floor. “Would you shut up and go get in the goddamned bed?” 

_“Fine.”_

Silence falls over the kitchen, and neither of them moves. Jon finally risks a peek at Martin, who is simultaneously risking a peek at him. 

“Well?” Jon asks sharply. 

Martin crosses his arms over his chest, cheeks tinged with pink and jaw set and stubborn. “Just for tonight, okay?” 

“Fine.” Jon pushes past him and marches back down the hall, aware that the rumpled pajamas probably hamper the effect he’s going for. He hears Martin fall in step behind him though, stopping alongside him at the edge of the bed.

Jon hesitates for a beat, then leans over and starts smoothing out the bedding. “Do you, er… do you prefer a side, or?..”

“Nope.” 

“Right.” Jon falters, glances at Martin. He can only just make him out in the dim light coming from the hall, and it fills him with relief. Because that means Martin likely can’t make _him_ out, either. For all his decisiveness out in the kitchen, actually standing here with Martin about to climb into his bed has him feeling suddenly, painfully awkward. 

“Alright?” Martin asks, quiet.

That finally spurs Jon into action, and in answer he slides into the bed, scooting across the far side.  

“...Guess so,” Martin mumbles, giggling a little. Nerves, from the sound of it. Jon knows the feeling. His silhouette shifts, and the mattress dips down, and then Martin is propped up in bed next to him, radiating a surprising amount of warmth. 

Jon forces himself to lie down, sinking into the pillow and staring unseeing up at the ceiling. He hears - and feels - Martin do the same. Their hands brush under the covers and Jon flinches. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Martin murmurs, and the hand is withdrawn. Jon absently clenches his hand against the sheet, against the empty space. Martin is- very warm. 

He tells him so, without thinking. 

There’s a startled little laugh, and then, “Sorry? Is it too much?” 

Jon bites his tongue, mentally kicking himself too for good measure. “It’s- fine. Just an observation.” They fall into another silence but for their breathing - so loud, here in the dark of his room. Jon carefully curls onto his side, facing Martin. He sleeps better on his side, is all. He studies the faint shape of him in the dark. The rise and fall of his chest. The shadow of his hair against the pillow--

He’d begun to think Martin had fallen asleep, when he breaks the silence with, “Jon?” Just more than a whisper.

“Yes?” Jon finds himself matching his tone. 

There’s a rustling of sheets, a huff of breath. A plaintive, “...Are you going to stare at me all night?” 

“I’m _not-”_ Jon snaps his mouth shut. Primly, “...I sleep better on my side.” To prove the point, he twists around onto his other side, putting his back to Martin. Tosses a pointed “goodnight” over his shoulder. 

“Yeah, sure,” Martin mutters, but there’s mirth in his voice. “Goodnight.” 

There’s no more conversation after that, and Jon soon drifts off with Martin’s warmth at his back. 

* * *

He’d fallen asleep warm, and he wakes up warmer. It envelopes him, settled heavy over his side and against his chest. Jon sighs sleepily and presses closer to it. The warmth presses back, tightening gently around him and drawing him closer. 

Jon’s eyes fly open. 

Ah. 

Right.

This again. 

He’s pressed- no, _wrapped_ around Martin, one arm flung over him and their legs tangled together while his face is burrowed into Martin’s chest. His face goes hot with embarrassment and his stomach goes cold with anxiety and then just feels- _warm -_ no. Well, yes, but not the point. 

He can’t keep doing this. 

Moving to carefully extricate himself reveals that Martin’s arm is wrapped firmly around _him,_ as well, holding him close. Martin is fast asleep, still, snoring softly. 

Well. 

Flustered, Jon settles back down. Against Martin. Squirms a bit, then makes himself stop squirming. Wonders what time it is; his alarm hasn’t gone off yet, he’s sure. The room is still fairly dark. 

He cranes his neck to look at Martin, and feels an irrational stab of frustration that he can’t really see his face from this angle. His eyes catch on a freckle on the underside of his jaw, one he hadn’t noticed before. He wonders sleepily if he’ll ever notice them all. 

Martin is- again, very warm. And doesn’t seem inclined to wake up any time soon. And Jon certainly isn’t going to wake him. Not like _this._ Resigned to his fate, he forces himself to relax and lets his eyes drift shut again. 

...And then his alarm goes off, shattering the cozy early morning.  

Jon swears under his breath and starts back violently, rolling away from Martin and grappling for his phone. He manages to get the alarm shut off and collapses back onto the bed, heart hammering in his ears. He looks over at Martin, bracing himself for the awkwardness and ready to make some joke about their predicament, and Martin will turn that particular shade of pink and laugh and _look at him_ that way he does when Jon says something funny, only--

Martin is, it seems, still asleep. 

Jon blinks at him, feeling both relieved and oddly disappointed. He scowls at the latter and forces it down. His phone buzzes in his hand. 

A missed call from Sasha, and one text. 

_“Hey, I’ve got something. About the worms. Come in as soon as you can.”_

The past few moments are forgotten in an instant and Jon is out of bed and hastily tugging his clothes on, not going to bother to brush his teeth or shower. He’s grabbed his bag and is about to rush out of the bedroom, when he stops and looks back at Martin. He hasn’t moved since Jon left him, still sleeping peacefully. 

Carefully, he walks back over to the bed. Reaches out, stopping just shy of Martin’s hair. Then stiffly pats his head and turns on his heel and quietly exits the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I had most of the chapter written and ready to go, when I realized just after midnight that it wasn't working and would be better as chapter 19, and that I needed to take some planned parts of chapter 19 and rewrite them as chapter 18. So. THAT HAPPENED. But I did it! :') 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, always, forever, eternally. Hope you enjoyed it!! I am, always, [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST AND VERY IMPORTANTLY, if you haven't seen it please go check out [THIS UTTERLY STUNNING FANART](https://mygys.tumblr.com/post/187152310183/martins-face-is-rather-pink-he-notices) of my favorite scene from chapter 13. @ tumblr user [mygys](https://mygys.tumblr.com/) you are a saint and a wonder and this is STILL making my whole life. Thank you so much!

Martin blinks gradually awake as the sounds of the city filter through the thin walls.

He yawns and stretches, rolls onto his back and slides a hand across the mattress. His lips turn up into a fond smile; the sheets are still warm from--

Mattress. Sheets. Warm. _Jon._

He bolts upright, searching the room. Empty. The bed - god, the _bed_ \- is rumpled and, yep, still warm from where _Jon had been lying next to him._

That happened. That definitely, definitely happened.

He and Jon had fallen asleep together for the second time, only this time was, well, on purpose. Because had Jon invited him. ...Commanded him, really. He feels a pleasant little thrill run though him - even in his exhausted, mortified state last night, he couldn't deny that Jon Sims ordering him to 'get in the goddamned bed' had been kind of hot.

Martin is only human after all.

Giddy, he curls onto his side and draws the duvet into his arms, burying his face in it. It smells like Jon.

... _Bit creepy,_ he chastises himself. The message is evidently lost on him, though, because he just snuggles the duvet closer, a dopey smile spreading across his face. 

Eventually the quiet of the flat settles on him and he sits up again, listening. Yeah, nothing. Dragging himself out of the bedroom reveals that Jon has, in fact, already left. According to the clock above the stove, far earlier than he reasonably had to. 

Martin sighs, shaking his head. “I hope he at least had some toast or something,” he grumbles. 

Already up, himself, he figures he may as well go get a shower and get his day started. He grabs a towel out of the hall closet and makes for the bathroom. Something is immediately off when he  steps inside. He flicks on the light and looks around with a small, confused frown. Then it hits him: the bathroom should still be steamy at this time of morning, or at least warm, if Jon had taken a shower. Checking the shower - bone dry - confirms that he hadn’t. 

 _Decidedly creepy,_ comes his conscience again, with more force. Martin winces. “I’m not _meaning it_ in a creepy way,” he says defensively into the empty bathroom. 

It’s not like the particulars of Jon’s hygiene habits are any of his business. The man is clean. He smells nice. Very nice. Beside the point, but-- 

\--But it’s just starting to paint a picture that has cold doubt squirming its way into Martin’s gut. Since, you know, they just shared a bed and now he wakes up to find that Jon had apparently fled the flat immediately upon waking, without looking back. Martin is half tempted to go check and make sure Jon’s belongings are still all there.

 _“Honestly,”_ he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you. You know what he’s like about work.” He strips off his clothes and tosses them in the hamper. Leans into the shower, turns on the tap. 

“I’ll send him a quick text in a bit to make sure everything’s okay. _Since that’s what I should be worried about._ Jesus.” And so he steps into the shower, doubt temporarily quelled and feeling much more reasonable. 

* * *

The office is silent but for the still whirring tape recorder and the steady ticking of the wall clock. Jon’s head rests in his hands and he breathes in, then out slowly, trying desperately to stay calm as he takes in everything that Sasha had just told him. 

About this- this Michael, who or whatever he is, and his interference, his apparent interest in _helping,_ and the worms and Jane Prentiss and the maddeningly ever-growing pile of questions and the stark lack of answers to keep up with them. 

He shoves his face harder into his hands and swallows back a growl of frustration. Sasha is right. Sasha had said out loud the very words that he’s been trying not to think for several months now. 

This isn’t a normal job. He lets out a bitter bark of laughter. That much has been obvious. And this certainly isn’t a _safe_ job. For god’s sake, they’re being stalked by a dangerously parasitic worm-infested woman. Not to mention whatever the hell this Michael is. Whatever the hell he _wants,_ because in all of the statements Jon has recorded, not a damned one of these things ever wants to _help._

He lets his hands fall to the desk. Stares down at them, unseeing. 

His thumb twitches idly against the cool surface, trying to tap out an anxious rhythm beneath the weight that’s bearing down on him. 

They should quit. 

Immediately. They should all walk out of here today and leave this place and everything in it behind them. 

There’s no rational explanation for the intense feeling of wrongness that thought churns up in him. 

Except that he just- he can’t leave it. Not like this, not without knowing. And it’s not like Jane Prentiss is going to give up just because they switched careers. And Martin- what if she comes after him again? Because of Jon? Better to stay here where they at least have access to resources that could help them against her. 

He’s read the statements. He knows how it ends. Something awful finds you and doesn’t give up until it gets you and no one bloody knows what happened or why. Hell, even Gertrude- and that alone should be enough incentive now, to get out while he can.

Jon sits back in his seat, reaches over and turns off the tape recorder. He is not going to be another what or why. None of them are. 

Tiredly, he pushes himself to his feet. Better go and talk to Elias about getting some more fire extinguishers. He scoffs. “For all the good talking to him is going to do.” 

* * *

“Thank you for telling me, Jon. I’ll make sure the archives are well supplied.” 

Elias turns his attention back to whatever he’d been doing on his computer, clearly considering the conversation over. 

Jon blinks, once, surprised. “That’s it?” 

“Was there something else you needed?” Elias asks, mild and unconcerned as ever. 

“...Not exactly, but-” Jon lets out a shaky half laugh and reminds himself that this _is_ his boss he’s talking to, before he attempts to form an answer. “It’s just that you haven’t, ah, seemed to take my concerns seriously until now.” 

Elias smiles at him. “Your concerns haven’t seemed to warrant it until now.” 

And that’s- well. Fair or not, he can’t argue with the logic. 

“Oh.” 

After giving him a long, appraising look, Elias turns back from his computer to face Jon fully, fingers laced together in front of him on the desk. 

“Until now, Jon, I’ll admit that I suspected your concern over the Jane Prentiss situation to be… blown out of proportion, by your feelings about what happened to Martin.” 

Jon bristles despite his resolution. “What happened to Martin was-” 

“Terrible, yes, I understand.” Elias holds a hand up in a placating gesture. “But traumatic as the experience may have been for him, that doesn’t mean it has any bearing on us here at the institute.” He pauses and presses his lips together, seeming to reconsider. “Though, come to think of it, as much as time as he spends here…” 

Jon doesn’t quite manage to control the impatient sigh that slips past his lips, and Elias raises an eyebrow. 

“That being said,” he continues evenly, “in light of Sasha’s experience, it would be negligent of me to deny you your request. Does that satisfy you?” There’s something almost amused and inexplicably fond in his expression. 

It throws Jon off his guard. He falters. “I- I suppose.” 

Elias, once again, turns back to his computer. The conversation is decidedly over, now, and Jon thanks him and quietly makes for the door. 

“Jon?” Elias calls after him. “Ask Mr Blackwood if he’d like a job. He may as well get a paycheck out of his time with us.” 

Jon shuts the door behind him without a word. 

* * *

Martin checks his phone; it’s nearly eleven and Jon hasn’t responded. Which isn’t unusual, or necessarily a cause for concern. It’s not. 

Except that Martin has had an entire morning to convince himself that Jon had woken up, taken one look at Martin lying next to him, and had an immediate visceral response of horror and disgust and regret and had fled the flat and possibly London to get away from him. 

He takes a deep, grounding breath, forcing his fingers to release their death grip on his computer mouse, which has just- great. Closed all thirty of his tabs. Great. The deep grounding breath turns into a despairing sigh as he reopens his browser and does his damnedest to put Jon out of his mind until lunch. 

It works, thank god, because if Martin is good at anything at this point in his life, it’s compartmentalizing. He glares at the pouring rain when he steps outside an hour later, and curses himself for at least the fifth time since he began staying with Jon for not remembering to bring his umbrella over. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he nearly drops it in his scramble to get it out and swipe to the message screen. 

_“Don’t come to the institute. I’ll meet you in the park.”_

His stomach drops all over again while he can only stare at the message in growing dread and consternation. Unthinking, he steps out into the downpour and immediately staggers back, spluttering. 

“Oh- bloody _hell,_ Jon,” he whines, frantically wiping his phone screen. He tucks the phone safely in his bag, and tucks the bag under his shirt, and with long-suffering exasperation Martin sprints out into the rain. 

* * *

Jon strides out of his office and across the archives. He’s got to get to Martin before he gets impatient - or worried - and decides to come and find him. The worms are getting more prevalent here all the time - _ah, shit, another one;_ he shouts and stomps it viciously - and he absolutely cannot have Martin seeing them. Plus, after the comments that Elias had made, well. 

He takes the stairs two at a time.

...And subsequently slams straight into Tim, who it turns out is just as solid and immovable as he looks. They both cry out in alarm, and Jon loses his footing and stumbles backwards. Fortunately, Tim’s arm shoots out and catches him before he falls to his death. 

“Whoa there, boss,” Tim is saying as he helps him right himself. “Everything alright?” 

“Fine,” Jon replies automatically. He straightens his shirt and starts to edge around Tim. “Just going to meet Martin. I’m having him wait for me in the park.” 

“In this weather?” 

“What?” 

Tim gives him an incredulous look. “In case you haven’t noticed, London is currently underwater.” 

Now that he mentions it, Jon can hear the heavy pounding on the roof and the rushing of the gutters. Guilt prickles in his stomach. “...I didn’t realize. I just had to keep him away from the institute.” 

Tim hums in understanding. “Right. Worms?” 

“Yes. And Elias, but- to a lesser extent.” 

That gets a snort from Tim, and Jon continues his move past him. 

“Wait, Jon.” Tim’s hand on his shoulder stops his ascent. “You’re keeping him away because he totally knows the worms are here and doesn’t want to see them again, right? And not because you’re keeping it some weird secret from him?” 

His tone suggests that he already suspects the answer, and doesn’t exactly approve. Jon tenses, defensive. “...I’m going to tell him.” 

“Are you _serious-”_

“Tim-” 

“You guys are living together now, right?” 

Jon scowls. “Martin is _staying with me_ for the time being, yes.” 

Tim matches his scowl, crossing his arms over his chest. “He’s _staying with you,_ and you’ve just neglected to mention that you’re being stalked by the same worm-infested monster that tried to-”

“I know, I know it looks- it looks bad,” Jon admits, relenting. He slumps against the wall of the stairwell. “It is. But I’m going to tell him. Soon. I-” He drops his gaze to his feet, brow furrowed. “I just don’t want to worry him unnecessarily. There’s nothing he can do. Right now there’s nothing _I_ can do. I- I want to at least have a solution to offer him, first.” 

Tim regards him for several beats and seems to be considering what he said. Finally, his expression softens marginally, and he drops his arms to his sides. “Look, Jon. I don’t want to cause any trouble between you two. But Martin is our friend, and either Sasha or I _will tell him_ if you don’t.” 

The words hang between them, sinking in. Jon wets his lips and nods, once. “Soon,” he promises. Then he pushes himself off the wall and hurries up the stairs. 

Arriving at the park, Jon sprints across the soggy grass, squinting through the rain. He quickly spots Martin, soaked and huddled under an awning. Martin spots him at the same time, and straightens up, looking anxious. 

“Jon!” He throws his arm up to shield his face from a gusting spray of cold droplets, and rushes over to Jon as he arrives under the awning. “Is everything alright?” He looks half annoyed, half worried, looking him over. 

Jon presses up against the wall, shivering. The guilt in his stomach intensifies when he takes in Martin’s sopping clothes, his hair plastered to his forehead. 

“...Elias,” he says weakly, panting. Martin screws his face up in confusion, and Jon attempts to clarify. “Elias made some- comments, about you being at the institute, so I thought it would be best to meet somewhere else for a while.” There. And it’s not untrue. 

“Oh. Oh, god.” Martin’s annoyance is quickly receding, the worry taking over. “You’re not in any sort of trouble, are you? I’m so sorry, Jon. I knew he didn’t like me-” 

Jon shakes his head and hurries to assure him. “No, no it’s- it’s alright. I’m not in _trouble,_ he was just- Elias.” He takes his glasses off and goes to wipe them with the end of his dripping sleeve, but after one attempt, just tucks them into his shirt pocket with a grimace. “I’m sorry about the weather. I didn’t, er. Realize.” 

Martin gives a humorless laugh and hugs himself. Water drips off the end of his nose. Jon isn’t faring much better. 

“Go back to the flat for a change of clothes?” he offers.

 _“Please,”_ Martin says. 

* * *

They’re huddled on the couch in fresh clothes, their hair towel-dried but still damp and sticking up in places. Martin is bundled in the heavy quilt that resides there. 

Jon, in reparation for inadvertently drowning them in the first place, has made tea and sandwiches. Martin, considering this and Jon’s evident guilt repayment enough, has forgiven him.

They are currently sipping their respective tea in silence, letting the warmth seep into their bones while the rain beats against the windows. 

Martin sniffles and casts a dubious glare at the window. “Not looking forward to going back out in that.” He takes a bite of his sandwich. “Maybe I’ll tell Melanie I got food poisoning.” 

Jon stills and pulls a face. “...Perhaps not the best choice.” 

“What- oh. Oh, Christ, yeah.” Martin winces. “Right, stomach-related excuses are off limits forever.” 

“That’s a good policy, I think.” 

Quiet falls over them again. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon notices Martin repeatedly glancing at him, fidgeting with his hands. Turning his sandwich and then his mug between them distractedly. He seems to be wanting to say something, and it’s a bit infuriating, but Jon is trying to learn to be patient. So he waits. 

He doesn’t have to wait long, fortunately, because soon Martin sits back in his seat and asks, “Hey, Jon?” 

“Hm?” 

Martin presses his lips together and seems to steel himself. “Why did you leave so early? This morning?” 

Jon’s heart skips a beat. Why would Martin ask him that? Had he woken up and seen the message from Sasha? Had Sasha told him something, herself? Had-- He masks his alarm behind a sip of tea. Sets his mug down with a quiet clink. 

“Ah, right. ...I got a message from Sasha. She wanted me to come in and- discuss a case.” He picks at the crust on his sandwich. “It seemed important, so I didn’t want to waste any time.” Again, not untrue.

He feels Martin’s eyes on him, and waits again. It feels much longer this time. 

“Oh. That’s all?” Jon looks up at the relief in his voice. Martin is studying his face, looking cautiously hopeful. 

Jon frowns. “...Yes? What did you- why did you think I left?” 

To his surprise, Martin’s cheeks flush faintly. He gives a soft, nervous little laugh, and now it’s his turn to hide behind his tea. “I, um. Well, we- we shared your bed, as, as you know of course, and-” He sets his mug down and curls his fists in his lap. “When I woke up early and you were gone…” 

Jon tilts his head, not catching his meaning, until understanding suddenly hits him. Oh. “Oh.” He quickly shakes his head. “No, Martin, I wasn’t-”

“It’s stupid,” Martin cuts in. “You- _you offered,_ and it’s not like anything hap- it wasn’t a big deal-” 

“Right,” Jon agrees. “It _wasn’t_ a big deal-” 

“I’m the one making it a big deal! We already slept here on the couch, that time-”

“Right.” 

“I’m making it weird when it _wasn’t,_ and now you’re going to-” 

On impulse, Jon lays a hand over Martin’s wrist. Martin quiets and meets his eyes, brows drawn down in worry and lip pulled between his teeth and cheeks still just pink enough to make his freckles stand out. 

“It’s _okay,_ Martin, it's- fine,” Jon says stiffly, going for soft but not entirely getting there. “Really, it was... I mean, I didn’t mind. Having you there.” He clears his throat. “I was glad to help, in any way I could.” 

Martin relaxes minutely, a small smile forming on his lips. 

Jon finally remembers to release Martin’s wrist and draws his hand back into his own space. He shivers, a likely mix of nerves and still being chilled from the rain. Martin notices, and unwraps the quilt from around his shoulders and quietly extends one end to Jon, who hesitates, then after a moment takes it and drapes it loosely around himself.

The warmth seeping from it immediately takes him back to this morning, a lifetime ago it feels like, when he’d awoken tangled up with Martin.

He flusters and hunches forward in his seat, clenching the quilt unconsciously tighter. 

“Alright?” Martin asks, bemused. 

Jon forces himself to relax, just slightly. “Ah- yes. Fine. It’s just… warm. The quilt.” 

Martin gives a soft, endeared laugh. “Yeah? Well that’s good.” 

Jon hums, affirmative, not really paying attention. Their eyes meet again, and a different sort of warmth washes over him. He shifts in his seat, and their knees brush. The point of contact burns through the fabric of his trousers. 

He swallows, attempting to wet his suddenly dry throat. “Martin.” 

“Yes..?” 

“I-” _Am not entirely sure what I want to say, here._ He tries again, “...Stay safe. I mean, I just- want you to stay safe. And comfortable.” He coughs. “Hence the, ah, bed.” Great. Totally necessary to get that out in the open.

Martin’s smile broadens and his eyes are alight with amusement and that well of emotion that Jon is woefully unequipped to delve into. “Good to know,” he says quietly, _warmly._ “Thanks, Jon.” 

Jon huffs and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “I’m- sorry again. About the rain.” 

“Eh, you made up for it.” Martin shrugs, eyes still sparkling with mirth. “...Sandwich had a bit too much mustard? You know, for next time you drag me into a downpour.” 

Jon should tell him. Whether he’s thinking specifically of Prentiss - well, definitely of Prentiss, yes - or of telling him how he feels about-

A siren wails just outside, and they both startle and sit back. Jon twists around towards the window, letting the quilt drop from his shoulders. He notices the rain has stopped.

“We should probably get going,” he says, reluctant. 

Martin looks like he feels about the same. “Yeah,” he agrees. Shrugs out of the quilt. “Yeah, we really need to go.” He stands up and gathers their mugs and plates and takes them into the kitchen. 

_I’m going to tell him._

Soon.

Jon had never noticed just how big this couch feels for one person.

* * *

“You seem to be in a better mood,” Melanie observes, stopping by Martin’s desk. She scrunches her nose at him. “...Are you wearing different clothes?” 

“Hm?” He looks down at himself. “Oh, yeah,” he laughs. “I got a bit soaked at lunch and went home- erm, back to Jon’s. To change.” 

Melanie nods, then pulls up a chair. “So what was up with you this morning?” 

Martin highlights a passage in his book - _Real Ghosts! And Where to Find Them_ \- and flips the page. “Oh, just, some stuff going on with Jon. Turned out to be nothing, but you know.” 

“Ugh.” She leans forward on her elbows. “Was he being a dick? Wanna talk about it?” 

He narrows his eyes at her. “Are you just looking for a reason to talk shit about Jon?” 

“Maybe.” She makes a noncommittal face. “But if I’m being a good friend in the process, does it matter?” 

He rolls his eyes. Scans the page, highlights another passage. Sets the book aside and opens his laptop. “He _wasn’t,_ for the record. It was just- me being paranoid, I guess?" He feels a giddy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "We, um, we slept together and-” 

“Ew!” Melanie recoils. 

Heat rushes to Martin’s cheeks. “Wh- no! No, not like-” 

“Gross. Oh my god, gross.” 

“We- we _shared a bed, Melanie,”_ he hisses, looking around for eavesdroppers. “Not- not like… that.” Christ. 

Melanie groans and puts her face in her hands. “Don’t do that to my brain.” 

Martin regards her flatly, unimpressed. “Are you done?” 

“It’s not you, by the way,” she adds, dropping her hands back into her lap. “Just- him. Jon, being…” She shudders. “Anyway, yep, I’m done. Please continue.” 

“As I was saying,” Martin says pointedly, and also pointedly trying not to think of _‘Jon, being…’._ “He ran off early and I thought he was- upset? Or something? Turns out it was just work stuff.” 

She scoffs. “Of course. I’ll save you any more stress right now and tell you that with Jon, it’s _always_ going to be work stuff.” She pushes herself to her feet and makes to leave. “But seriously, I’m glad you’re good.” 

Then, stopping mid-step, a hand on her hip, “Hey, you should come over tonight. Some of the others are coming by and we’re gonna play games and stuff. We haven’t hung out in ages.” 

Martin raises his eyebrows, taken aback. “Yeah, yeah alright. Sure.” She’s right, they _haven’t_ hung out in ages. They’re long overdue. “I’ll do that.” 

She grins at him. “Great! Show up whenever. If you bring drinks, I’ll let you win.” 

He snorts and waves her off. “I’m holding you to that. See you tonight.” 

* * *

Martin drops his controller into his lap and lets his head fall back onto the chair behind him. “I thought we had a deal,” he whines.  

Melanie flashes a triumphant grin as Princess Peach crosses the finish line in first place. Again. “Sorry, Martin. No deals in Mario Kart. Only glory.” 

“Yeah, I’m seeing that,” he laughs. He leans over to grab his drink. 

Next to him on the floor, Pete, their sound tech, claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t feel bad, mate. No one stands a chance when she’s playing.” He jabs a thumb in Melanie’s direction. Whispers conspiratorially, “She cheats somehow, I swear.” 

Melanie makes a great show of deep, personal offense. “Excuse you? I’m sorry you lot can’t tell a prodigy when you see one.” 

There’s a loud, disbelieving hum from across the room; an act of war. Martin ducks as a crisp packet and an empty can are hurled over his head. He decides to check his phone while he’s down there. 

Melanie snatches it out of his hand. 

“Hey!” 

“Hey, yourself,” comes the sharp retort. “No texting the boyfriend during friend time.” 

“I wasn’t!”

Melanie looks smug. “You weren’t? So you admit that he’s your boyfriend?” 

A chorus of _‘Ohhh’_ rises across the room. 

“I- I didn’t- I _don’t,”_ Martin stammers, blushing painfully. “He’s not! And _that’s_ cheating.” He reaches for his phone.

“Sure.” She sits up straight and waves a hand in the air. “Alright, everyone! Let’s take a vote. Does Martin have a boyfriend. Let’s examine the facts.” 

“Seriously? How old are we?” Martin groans, dragging her arm down. She leans back out of his reach. 

“Okay, so,” she begins, listing the items off on her fingers. “They have designated weekly lunch dates. They both moon over each other when they’re apart for more than a week. Martin gets all smiley and dopey whenever you talk about the guy- like now.” 

Martin claps a hand over his mouth, mortified.

“-They have each other as their phone backgrounds,” she adds, swiping open Martin’s phone. “Gross. And! They recently moved in together.” She throws her hands up. “Boyfriend in all but name. I rest my case.” 

The agreement is nearly unanimous, and Martin is greeted with a series of jaunty congratulations.

“Thanks a lot,” he grumbles to Melanie, without any real heat. He holds out his hand out for his phone and she drops it into his palm looking fiendishly pleased. 

He glances down at it, flicks his tongue over his lips. “Um… you mentioned us _both_ having each other as our backgrounds?..” 

“Oh! Yeah, Georgie told me,” Melanie tells him flippantly. “You really should hang out with her more.” 

“Huh.” Irritation forgotten, Martin’s heart does a stuttery flip in his chest. He doesn’t try to cover his smile this time as he thoughtfully strokes a thumb over his phone screen. Around him, he’s vaguely aware of the conversation moving on as Pete starts up another game, sans Melanie so someone else can have a chance to win. 

A hand waves a controller in front of his face. “Martin, you in?” 

Martin blinks at it, then hurries to take it. “Yeah, sorry!” 

He’s in a good mood when he arrives back at the flat later that night. It _had_ been fun hanging out with his coworkers again. Plus, his stomach is still doing that swoopy thing every time he remembers the conversation - well attack, really, by Melanie. That helps, too. 

 _In all but name._ Of course, he’s not naive enough to really imagine that’s any sort of valid claim, and plenty of friends do the same things as he and Jon, obviously, _because they are friends,_ but...

He bounces on his heels as he locks the door and puts his things down. Steps out of his shoes, drops his coat on the coffee table as he passes. Notices Jon’s coat draped across the couch. It fills him with more warmth than a coat has any right to.  

“Jon?” he calls. 

Jon’s bedroom light is on and the door is cracked, so he makes his way back there. He gives the door a single rap with his knuckles. “You in there?” 

There’s a sound of shifting fabric and the creak of the mattress. “I am. Come in.” 

Martin pushes the door open and finds Jon sitting in the middle of his bed, hunched over his laptop. Jon looks over at him briefly. Gives him one of his almost-smiles. 

“How was it?” he asks, distracted, turning his attention back to his screen. 

“Great.” Martin makes his way over, glancing at Jon’s phone on the nightstand. He tingles pleasantly when he remembers what Melanie told him. 

He perches on the edge of the bed and gestures at Jon’s laptop. “What are you doing?” 

“Hm?” Jon doesn’t look up again. “Ah, just- checking some things. Work.” 

“Right, of course.” Martin smiles at him and is about to leave him to that when something catches his eye. He leans over, peering at the front of Jon’s shirt. 

“Um. Is…? Is that mine?” 

Jon’s brow creases, and he looks down at the shirt, grasping the front of it and holding it out. “Is it?” he asks. 

Sure enough, Jon Sims is sitting on his bed in Martin’s shirt; an oversized t shirt - especially oversized on Jon - with a faded graphic of kittens in a basket on the front. 

“Er, sorry,” Jon says, looking flustered and confused. “It was in my drawer; it must have got mixed up with mine somehow. I can, ah- I can change, if you want..?” He looks adorably reluctant, absently rubbing the worn fabric between his thumb and forefinger. Martin doesn’t know which is more endearing; Jon wearing the shirt, or Jon seeing the shirt and thinking it was a possibility that it was his. Either way, Jon is wearing his shirt and Martin has a fleeting moment of concern that his heart might actually explode out of his chest. 

“No, no you’re fine, you’re- keep it,” he insists, voice rising an octave. “God knows I never wear it. I’d forgotten about it, til now.” 

Jon, bless him, scowls down at the shirt. “It’s soft,” he mumbles. He turns abruptly back to his laptop and types something in the address bar. Martin scoots over next to him. 

“Youtube?” he ask, curious. 

Jon hums. “I forgot that Melanie” - he says her name with a deliberate dryness that makes Martin roll his eyes - “texted me the other day, telling me to watch the newest episode. I made a point of not replying, but unfortunately my curiosity doesn’t allow me to not _watch.”_  

Martin has to bite his tongue at Jon’s pointless, petty refusal to acknowledge ever being a fan. But whatever. It’s fine. He can let him have this. 

Then the words fully register and alarm spikes through him. “Uh, Jon. I don’t know if you really..?” _Want to watch that, since, you see, I sort of told Melanie your dark secret a while back - completely by accident! - and she did very much have something to say about it and-_

But Jon is already clicking play, and Martin decides the best thing he can do is settle in and play innocent of his part in what’s coming for as long as he can. He leans in closer to see the screen, nerves and guilt still not quite strong enough to diminish the moment his shoulder brushes against Jon’s.

As the episode progresses, Martin is filled with no little pride; they’d done a great job on that one. _He’d_ done a great job, for his part. And he’s gratified to see that it has Jon’s rapt attention. 

They gradually sink towards each other on the mattress until their shoulders are pressed together; a steady point of contact that Martin is finding rather distracting. He peeks over at Jon, whose eyes are intent on the scene where the ghost finally makes its appearance. 

Martin gets caught up studying Jon’s profile - furtively, of course. The silver streaked at his temples, the slope of his nose, the faint, rough stubble coming in across his cheek. Not anything he hasn’t seen before and observed in enraptured detail, of course; but he never does get tired of it. He wants to look at Jon Sims forever. Wants to always be this close, and closer. Wants to lean in - and he could - and press his lips to the small hollow behind his jaw--

His breath catches and he startles when something brushes his hand. He looks down to see that their hands have slid close enough for a couple of their fingers to overlap. He risks another glance at Jon’s face, and maybe it’s the lighting from whatever is playing out on the screen, but he could swear there’s a faint pink tinge to his cheeks.

Then the episode ends, apparently, because Melanie’s familiar sign off cuts into his thoughts. Martin remembers with an abruptness why he’d been anxious to begin with. He withdraws his hand and sits up and away as inconspicuously as possible.

“-And one more thing, before I go,” Melanie is saying. “This episode is dedicated with love to one very special fan, Jonathan Sims. I know you like the show, Jon, and I just wanted to say I’m so glad a _scholar and researcher_ like you can enjoy our humble production. That’s all. Just wanted you to know? That I know.” She gives the camera a bright smile, and Andy cuts in with: 

“Uh. Yeah. Okay, that’s all guys! Hope you enjoyed this episode, and if you want to see more don’t forget to like, comment, and subscr-” 

“Classy,” Jon drones, closing the browser and shutting the laptop with a decisive clack. 

Martin bites his lip, holding back a nervous laugh. “Yeah, ha. Forgot she’d done that. She, um, really doesn’t like you.” 

Jon lets out a wry huff of a laugh. “Well. I can’t say it was entirely undeserved. She could easily have done worse.” He sets his laptop aside and stretches, sitting back on the bed. He frowns thoughtfully. Curiously, to himself, “I wonder how she even found out that I- wait.” 

Martin is already off the bed and out of the room. “I’m going to make something to eat,” he calls back. “Have you had dinner?” 

“Martin...” Jon calls after him. The bed creaks. Martin doesn’t look back. 

_“Martin!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the tension - of every variety - grows ever stronger. Thanks so much for reading, as always, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter!! Find me at [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, as always and if no one knows yet lol. If you like :)


	20. Chapter 20

“You know you’re kind of bad at this?” 

Martin mumbles the words into the pillow, so hoarse and miserable sounding that Jon can’t truly be offended. Still, he scowls and sets a glass of water down on the nightstand with a thud - wincing when Martin makes a pained noise at the sound. 

“I’m trying my best,” he snaps in defense. He’s sure they both know that his attitude is due more to guilt than actual irritation; in the wake of his soaking in the park, Martin had come down with a small cough that in the weeks since has morphed into a rather more persistent cough. And fever. And chills. And all the accompanying misery. 

Since then, Jon has been making his best effort at looking after Martin, even if he’s been generally making himself more of a nuisance than an actual help. In the better part of a week he’s already spilled tea on him, fixed him the one type of soup that he just happens to have a very unfortunate reaction to, and most recently - just now actually - surprised him with a palm to his forehead when he thought he was sleeping, which resulted in Martin starting violently and getting accidentally smacked in the face. 

Martin sighs - or tries to; it turns into a raspy cough. Once he’s recovered from _that,_ he sighs again. “...Sorry. I know you’re trying to help. It’s- nice, actually?” He rubs at the stinging red mark on his forehead. “The, um, intent, I mean. I’m not used to being the one taken care of.” 

“And I’m not exactly used to taking care of anyone," Jon adds wryly. "If that wasn’t clear.”

“Hm, might have noticed.” Martin smiles at him, tired and wan but warm. And then another fit of coughing overtakes him and he curls up pitifully under the duvet. 

Jon hovers, watching him with a small, uncertain frown. Martin peeks up at him. 

“You can go on,” he assures him. “I’m sure you have something spooky to do.” He lets out a little laugh when Jon grimaces at the utterance of the S Word. “I’m going to try to sleep for a bit, I think? I’ll be fine.” 

“Are you sure?” Jon looks back down the hall, indecisive. “I could- bring a chair in here, if you want... company.” Whatever good that could possibly do. Still, it’s something to offer, and people seem to like that. 

“So you can stare at me while I sleep?” Martin laughs. “No thanks.” When Jon’s scowl returns, he adds, kindly, “You’ve done plenty, Jon. _Really._ Letting me take over your bed again was more than enough.”

“Well.” Jon huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “I certainly couldn’t let you cough yourself to death on that bloody air mattress.” He spits the words ‘air mattress’ with more venom than they’ve probably ever warranted since their conception. He tells himself that it’s entirely because it’s impractical and unnecessary and takes up half his living room, besides. 

Not at all because of how massive his bed has felt since Martin moved out of it. 

“Can we not get into that again?” Martin groans, closing his eyes and burrowing deeper into the covers. “Go _on,_ I’ll let you know if I need something.”

“Well. Alright.” Jon wavers, rocks a little on his feet. Finally he takes half a step forward and stiffly pats Martin’s shoulder through the heavy duvet, earning him a tiny, surprised smile. 

Jon averts his eyes and turns and exits the bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind him. 

As it turns out, he does have sp- _work_ to do; it’s Sunday, so he plans to spend the afternoon and well into the evening getting a head start on the week. He and Tim and Sasha have divided a large swath of statements between the three of them, and have spent the past weeks combing through them for any further mentions of Jane Prentiss or, now, this Michael creature that Sasha encountered. 

He’s not sure how much time has passed, but he’s well into the small stack he’d set out when he startles at the sound of a muffled curse and the bedroom door slamming open. 

Alarmed, he twists around on the couch. “Martin..?” 

Martin rushes into the living room, bleary and flushed. He opens his mouth to say something before immediately doubling over coughing. Jon gets up and hurries over to him. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks sharply.

Martin holds up a finger, signaling for him to wait while he catches his breath. “You want to help, right?” he asks, panting. He swipes at his now damp eyes. 

Jon frowns. “Of course.”

“Great.” Martin holds out his closed fist, and when Jon extends his own hand, he shoves a USB drive into his palm. “Take this to Melanie for me?” 

“...Ah.” Jon feels distinctly less helpful, suddenly. He eyes the little drive warily. “Is it urgent?” 

Martin’s eye roll is withering. “Yes, actually? Or I’d wait and do it myself when I don’t feel like death.” He takes a ragged breath and slumps against the wall. “Look, you don’t have to, obviously? But you’d be doing me a huge favor if you could suck it up and spend _two minutes_ in Melanie’s presence. Tops.”

And, well, when he puts it that way. Jon pulls a face, but he relents, waving Martin off. _“Alright,_ alright. Point taken.” 

He curls his fingers around the drive. “Just- let me get dressed.” Martin’s tired, grateful smile as he steps past him towards his bedroom is almost enough to make up for having to go see Melanie King. Almost. 

Jon pulls his socks on and then pauses, looking down and realizing he’d put on another one of Martin’s shirts. He glances dubiously at the empty closet and then at the full hamper in the corner. Right. He bends down to slip on his shoes. 

Martin is curled up on the couch when he comes back out. Jon moves around him, gathering up the scattered statements and stacking them on the coffee table.

Martin tilts his head up to look at him. Then, “Okay, now I know it’s not an accident.” 

Jon blinks at him, then follows his gaze to-- the shirt he’d put on. Ah. “...I might need to do some laundry,” he admits, shifting on his feet self-consciously. 

"Or I do, at this point." Martin grins at him. Jon huffs. 

"Well. I'd best be going," he says stiffly, awkwardly angling himself away as if that will in any way hide the offending shirt. 

Martin snorts - and triggers another fit of coughing. "Thanks, Jon," he says weakly, giving him a watery smile. “And _please_ try to be nice? For me? When I have to go back and deal with the fallout?” 

“Be- _‘Be nice’?"_ Jon sputters, indignant. "What about _her?”_ Martin gives him a tired, flat look. “...Right. Nice. I’ll- try my best.” 

* * *

Jon stands outside the door to Ghost Hunt UK's office space, steeling himself. Summoning the strength to be… nice. 

He takes the USB out of his pocket and inhales slowly. It’s not like it’s hard. He’s nice all the time. To quite a few people, these days. He can certainly dredge up some pleasantness for two minutes and be nice to-

The door flings open so abruptly that he yelps and staggers back to keep from getting hit. Melanie stands in the doorway, glaring. 

"So were you ever going to knock, or?.."

Jon bristles."If you already saw me, you could have just opened the damned door.”

"I could have," she agrees. Then, with a smirk and half a shrug, “I did.” 

 _Be nice,_ he reminds himself. He holds out the drive. "Martin wanted me to give this to you."

She blinks at him. Reaches out to take it. "Oh. Well, thank you." Then, "How's he feeling? ...Do you even know?" she asks, sharp.

"Of course I know," he snaps. "He's- mostly staying in bed. But he's alright."

She nods, then eyes him suspiciously. "Are you helping him any? Or just leaving him to fend for himself?"

"Oh for Christ's- why else would I be _here,_ being interrogated?"

" _Fine,_ fine," she relents, propping a shoulder against the door frame. "I care about him, is all. And you don't strike me as the most attentive boyfriend, I don't care what Georgie says. She's obviously biased."

That finally gives Jon pause. “Georgie said- wait.” He flushes and chokes and stammers out, _“Boyfr-_ he’s- I’m not- _we’re--”_

Melanie quirks an eyebrow. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Jon shoots her a scathing glare and jams his hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff. “Martin and I are not in a relationship.” 

“Right,” she says, reasonably. “That’s why you’re wearing his clothes.” She gives him a pointed once-over. 

A fresh wave of heat floods his face and he removes his hands from his pockets to cross his arms across his torso protectively. “I’m a bit behind on laundry.” 

Melanie pats him on the arm. He flinches. “Of course,” she says, with a viciously agreeable smile. Jon bites his tongue. 

“If that’s _all,”_ he hints, backing away. 

“It is.” She tosses the USB in the air and lightly snaps it up in her palm. “Thanks again, Jon.” 

He’s gone a dozen paces when she calls to him, “For the record, he’s too good for you.” 

Jon swallows back a retort that would only keep him here even longer and likely get him in some trouble with Martin. Instead he just straightens his spine and slows his retreat to his best approximation of a dignified walk. 

* * *

A prickling feeling against his back violently startles Martin out of his nap. With a shout and a frantic _“Shit, shit, no no nonono-”_ he leaps up off the couch, stumbling and uncoordinated with sleep, slamming his shin into the coffee table and sending Jon’s stack of statements cascading to the floor. 

He whirls around, wide-eyed and wheezing and fully expecting to see a horde of writhing worms chewing their way through the fabric of the couch--

\--And finding, instead, the corner of a loose sheet of paper sticking out from behind the cushion. Martin nearly collapses with relief. 

“Oh. Oh _god,”_ he laughs, coughs, grimaces, sinks heavily down onto the coffee table as his heart slows back down to a more advisable speed. He sniffles and rubs at his throbbing shin. That’s going to be a pain for a while. Still, he’ll take a banged up shin over- yeah. Definitely. 

Letting out another breathless little laugh, Martin pushes himself up to retrieve the page from the couch, almost giddy with relief. Next he sets about gathering up the scattered statements. He crouches down slowly - careful not to lean forward too much and trigger another coughing fit - and starts scooping the pages together in some semblance of a pile. 

“I hope these weren’t in some kind of order,” he mumbles fretfully as he stacks them back onto the coffee table. “Sorry, Jon.” He makes to stand again, wincing at another stab of pain from his battered shin, when something on the top page catches his eye. 

There’s a section circled in pen, and written in the margins in Jon’s handwriting is ‘Prentiss?’ Martin frowns and picks up the page, curious. There are a couple more similar notes, as well as several more on the next few pages; notes to look into this or have Tim or Sasha research that, all of them very clearly pointing to a heavy research effort involving Jane Prentiss. 

A shiver runs through him and he carefully sets the pages back on the stack. He bites his lip. Glances at the door. Okay. 

Okay. 

His first thought is that Jon is on some kind of vengeance-fueled quest to bring Jane Prentiss and her worms to justice on his behalf. 

The very idea sends a little thrill of warmth through him even as he discounts it immediately; if that was the case, wouldn’t he have heard about it by now? Wouldn’t Jon have brought it up _at all_ during the past couple months, when Martin had woken up in a sweat, convinced that she’s still _out there, that she’s coming--_

Martin takes a slow, careful breath. Hell, even if it was just general research, following up, Jon would have told him. Okay, Jon doesn’t always tell him what they’re working on, he doesn’t like talking about some of them, but- this is personal. He would have told Martin _this._

Or so he thought. 

Martin sways a bit on the couch and closes his eyes. _Christ,_ his head hurts. And his throat. And his _leg._ He gets up and limps into the bedroom where Jon had left him a bottle of painkillers and a glass of water earlier. It brings a small smile to his lips. 

...Which quickly fades as he recalls for the thousandth time just how _off_ Jon has been. That, combined with- whatever the _hell_ he’s just stumbled upon has cold suspicion and dread settling heavy in Martin’s chest. Suspicion of _what,_ he has no clue. 

But he’s going to find out. 

He swallows two pills and gulps down half the glass of water, then heads back out into the living room. Chilled, he drags the quilt over to wrap around him as he settles down on the couch. Jon should be back soon.

He waits, running his fingers along the edge of the quilt anxiously. Jon is prickly about what he perceives as a confrontation under the best of circumstances. Especially anything related to work. _Especially_ lately. 

Martin lets out a ragged sigh that, of course, devolves into a miserable cough. “I hope this doesn’t turn into a fight,” he grumbles.

And waits. 

* * *

...It wasn’t a fight. 

They’re _not_ fighting.

Martin studies the vibrant rack of thread; needlepoint classes at the center start June fifth, and he wants to hurry and get all of his supplies before they get picked over. Not, he muses, that there’s likely to be that large of a summer needlepoint crowd, but you never know. 

It’s not a fight. Just a few words exchanged last night to the effect of Martin being an overbearing ass and Jon being “impossible”, “infuriating”, and “completely selfish”, caring about “literally no one but himself or how his actions affect them”. 

Also, a dick. That too. 

He coughs lightly into the collar of his shirt. He’s finally starting to feel a bit better; well enough to be out and about anyway. Well enough to get out of the flat and away from--

He frowns at himself and chases away the uncharitable thought before it can sour in his throat.

The initial conversation, just over a week ago, hadn’t gone that badly. It… hadn’t gone much at all, really, because Jon had turned unnervingly wide-eyed and guilty before stammering something out about ‘research’ and ‘standard procedures’ and ‘for god’s sake, Martin, of course we’re looking into it’. 

He’d then proceeded to stuff the stack of statements haphazardly into his bag and fling the bag over his shoulder, claiming that on that note, he really _does_ need to get back to work, and then locked himself in the bedroom. 

Even now, looking back, Martin can’t help rolling his eyes. _Subtle._

He examines the list the instructor had sent out; just a few basic thread colors and tools, she’d said. Then he glances down at his basket very notably containing one skein of almost every color, chewing his lip. He reaches for the light green, which really isn’t that much different from the spring green-- 

Well. No harm in being prepared. 

For good measure, he picks up a moss green, too, before moving on.

Of course, if he’d been intending to let the issue drop, he certainly wasn’t going to after- after _that._ But for all Jon lacks in subtlety, he more than makes up for in his skills in avoidance and had somehow managed to go the span of an entire week only running into Martin a handful of times. He was around, because more than once, Martin had woken up with pain killers or cough drops or toast sat waiting for him. It was that mix of endearing and utterly _infuriating_ that, he supposes, sort of sums up the entire experience of loving Jonathan Sims. 

The thought makes his chest hurt as he stands in line to check out. 

He loves him. He really, _really does,_ but Jesus Christ. 

It had all come to a head last night, after Martin had opened the hall closet and found a stash - a literal _stash -_ of _fire extinguishers._ He’d managed to corner Jon in the kitchen and ask him about it, because, um? Obviously. He had also very pointedly not bought Jon’s faltering explanation that “They were on sale.” It was all too much, and Martin had become… annoyed, and Jon had become defensive, and then, well. 

Words had been exchanged, as stated. 

Jon had left after that to go back to the institute.. _Not because of the f-_ the exchange. He’d already been headed that way. Martin is pretty sure he didn’t come home last night, and he doesn’t know if he came back this morning because _he_ left first thing. 

...Not avoiding Jon, or anything. He just needed some air. Get some breakfast, get on to the craft store before the hordes of needlepointing Londoners descend upon it. 

He adjusts his grip on his shopping bag and checks his phone as he exits the store - nothing. More to the point, nothing from Jon. 

Martin’s shoulders slump and he lets out a long, tired sigh.

He’s probably home by now. Probably dragged himself back and collapsed in bed and passed out without even realizing Martin was gone. 

 _Or else he’s still at the institute, sulking,_ comes the bitter thought.

Or else he got eaten by w- 

Nope. 

“Think I’ll stop for a coffee,” he says to himself, too bright. It’s a nice enough day; overcast but warm, and the coffee shop he chooses has a lovely little back garden where he can sit and maybe get some writing done and try his damnedest to think about anything but Jon Sims and the aching gap he’s left in his chest.

* * *

 _“It’s not a fight,”_ Jon intones, a reminder. He flips through the file he’d brought over with studied concentration. 

Georgie makes a disbelieving sound from her end of the couch. “Fine, it’s become a big enough deal that you’ve started a _discussion_ over it,” she corrects. “Either way, it’s got you in a shit mood.” She jabs him with her foot.

“Hey!” Jon glares at her foot where it still hovers near his hip and scoots out of kicking range. “Believe it or not,” he says dryly, “my mood is occasionally affected by things other than Martin.” He angles away from her and tries to resume a sincere perusal of the file. 

The couch shifts and sinks as Georgie gets up to settle herself down next to him. She rests her chin on his shoulder, peering at the pages on his lap. “Like whatever this is?”

He snaps the folder shut impatiently. “Do you mind?” 

“I could ask you the same,” she retorts, sitting back. “You’re the one who’s been on my couch sulking all morning.” 

Jon lets out an exasperated sigh and twists around to face her. “I’m not-” He catches sight of her raised eyebrows, her lips flattened into a line, and changes tack. “...I’m being an ass, aren’t I?” 

“Mhm.” 

“...Right. Sorry.”

“Better.” The Admiral materializes at her feet, rubbing on her shins, and she scoops him up and unceremoniously plops the cat onto Jon’s lap. “Now, when are you going to tell him?” 

Jon opens his mouth to protest, then snaps it shut and sullenly flops back against the couch. The Admiral flops against _him._  

“… Soon. I’ve been saying that, but-” He sinks deeper into the cushions, absently running his fingers through soft fur. Resigned. “I suppose I don’t have much of a choice.” 

Georgie regards him thoughtfully. “You’re afraid he’ll leave,” she states, matter of fact. “You’re afraid if he knows it’s not over yet, he’ll leave.” 

“I…” Jon breathes out harshly through his nose, fixing his eyes on a distant point across the room. “Yes. Yes, that’s part of it.” He lets out a bark of humorless laughter. The Admiral _brrts_ irritably. 

“Christ, I’ve dug myself into this one.” 

That at least earns him a squeeze on the shoulder. He can’t decide whether it’s comforting or just makes him feel like shit. “You tend to do that, babe.” 

Ah, like shit, then. 

He groans and lets his head fall back. “Believe it or not,” he continues, listless, “I didn’t have entirely selfish intentions.” 

“I know,” Georgie sympathizes. “And Martin will know, too. You know, if you bloody _tell him.”_ There’s a beat, and out of the corner of his eye, he can tell she’s thinking. 

“Do something thoughtful,” she offers. _“Apologize,_ first and foremost. Explain yourself. Let him yell if he needs to, _without_ interrupting him to tell him why he’s wrong.” She shrugs. “Then do something nice.” 

Jon scrunches his face. Gives her a quizzical look. “Like what?”

“Nope,” Georgie pushes herself to her feet. “That’s all the work I’m doing for you today. He’s your-” she cuts off when she sees the look he shoots her, _“-friend._ You know him. Put in some effort. I’ve got to get the Admiral his lunch.” 

He ruminates on this while she heads into the kitchen. Then he takes out his phone - pointedly ignores the way his stomach sinks when he sees that Martin hasn’t been in touch - and taps out a message. 

 _“Are you home-”_ Delete. _“Are you at the flat?”_

The response comes while he’s still frowning at the screen. _“Yes”._ Then, immediately after: _“Are you okay?”_

Jon’s stomach sinks even lower. He’s not one to consider how deserving he is of the people in his life; not out of ingratitude, he just- doesn’t think about it that way. Or at all. But right now-- 

He gently removes the Admiral from his lap, hissing under his breath as claws dig stubbornly into his thigh, and stands up. “Georgie, I’m gone,” he calls. 

She leans in from the kitchen. “Yeah? Going back to your boy?” 

“Back _home,_ yes,” he replies stiffly, this time ignoring the way her stupid phrasing makes his heart stutter and skip.

Georgie grins at him and blows him a kiss. “Proud of you, Jon. Love you, good luck!” 

“Love you too,” he says automatically, already making for the door. Opening his messages again, he types, _“I’m fine. On my way home.”_

* * *

Martin forces himself to remain firmly seated at the kitchen table and _not_ give in to his legs’ urge to anxiously pace every square inch of the flat while he waits for Jon to get home. As if to make up for the lack of movement, his heart decides to anxiously race on ahead instead. 

He turns his eyes back on his book with renewed determination.

Then the sound of the key in the door carries from the living room and Martin is on his feet in an instant, all pretence abandoned as he rushes out of the kitchen.

Jon regards him warily from the doorway, almost like he’s afraid he’s not welcome.

After a few long seconds, Martin tells him, “It’s your flat, you know.” Lightly; an attempt at a joke. He can practically hear it hitting the floor. 

Jon’s brow creases. This at least seems to spur him into action, because he steps the rest of the way inside, closing the door quietly behind him. “...Hey,” he says. 

“Hi.” 

Jon runs his tongue over his teeth, hands stuffed in his pockets. Looking uncertain and wrong-footed in a way that has Martin instantly wanting to reassure him. He mentally scolds himself, standing firm. 

And so the silence stretches heavy between them as they both just _stand there,_ and Martin has just opened his mouth to finally break it somehow when Jon blurts out, “I’m sorry.”  

That puts a stop to whatever Martin had been about to say. “Oh,” he says simply. “I mean, okay. Good.” He immediately winces at how that sounds. 

But Jon seems to deflate, as if the words had unstoppered some great well of tension inside him. He makes his way over to the couch and perches awkwardly on the arm. Martin takes a seat on the side opposite. 

“I’m- sorry,” Jon continues, “for calling you an overbearing ass. And for my, ah, general behavior this past week.” He’s staring at his lap with a stern intensity that Martin can’t help finding adorable, even now. 

 _We’re pissed at him,_ he reminds himself, watching Jon’s fingers elegantly trace a frayed spot on the knee of his trousers. 

“-And I’m sorry for- for not telling you about Jane Prentiss.” 

This successfully drags Martin’s attention back to the topic at hand. He swallows. “Yeah?” he asks, his voice definitely too high to be as carefully neutral as he wants. 

Jon takes a deep breath and seems to be considering his response. Then, still not looking at Martin, he forces the words out, slowly, deliberately punctuating each one, “...There… may be some evidence that Jane Prentiss is still- around. In a local sense. We’ve- Tim, Sasha, and I - seen some of the worms. ...Around.” 

Martin feels the blood drain from his face. “Oh god. Oh _god, Jon-”_

“I should have told you,” Jon blurts in a rush, fingers clenching reflexively on his knees. “I should have, I know. And I- fully intended to.” 

 _“Jesus.”_ Martin shakes his head minutely in disbelief. “When? _When_ did you think it would be important for me to know about this?” 

 _“Soon,”_ Jon insists, earnest, finally meeting his eyes. “I’m serious, Martin, I- the statements you found, we’ve been trying to find out anything we possibly can about her. Anything that might- help. In any way at all.” 

He stands up and comes to sit on the couch nearer to Martin. “I wanted to wait until we had something, before I- dragged you any further into it. I was afraid that you’d-” he cuts the sentence short with a frustrated little scowl. 

“You’d been through enough,” he finishes, quiet. “I thought I was doing the right thing. At- at first.” His hands are clenched tight in his lap, and he presses down on his knee when it tries to bounce. 

Martin leans forward on his elbows, staring unseeing at the coffee table, trying to parse out exactly what he’s feeling, right now.

Still mad? Definitely. _Definitely._ Not even so much about Jon hiding it - he’d known he was hiding _something_ \- but more about the way he’d acted when Martin finally confronted him. Like Martin was an idiot, like he didn’t deserve the courtesy of an explanation. 

Scared? No. _Terrified,_ though, yep, that's about right. Absolutely terrified. For himself, yes, but... knowing that Jon’s been out there seeing signs of this- thing, knowing that at any moment she could have been lurking, waiting to follow him and- 

A sick shudder wracks his body. It’s too awful to even think about. 

He can feel more than see Jon watching him, intent and surprisingly patient. Martin knows he should say something in response, but honestly, he doesn’t know where to begin. 

And then he does. 

He laces his fingers together. Looks up. “...What about the fire extinguishers?” 

Jon straightens up, looking almost pleased at being able to provide another answer. Another chance at making things right. “Right,” he says, nodding. “Those kill the worms. The, er, the co2. Kills the worms. After we found out, I decided to stock up. Just to be safe,” he adds, reassuring. 

 _“Jesus,”_ Martin swears again. He turns fully to Jon, who isn’t even trying to hide the anxiety lining his features. Martin’s heart - damn it - goes out to him. He sighs. “Look, Jon. I’m- I’m mad at you. Obviously.” 

Jon drops his eyes back to his lap. “That’s fair,” he admits, carefully diplomatic.

Martin presses on. “And for god’s sake, you can’t just- you can’t _hide_ things like this!” 

He stands up, finally giving his legs what they want and nervously pacing the floor. “Not only does it affect me, not only do I have a right to know, but-” He stops and faces Jon again, scrubs a hand harshly over his face. “I’m your- I, I mean, we’re friends. I want to be here for you, alright?” 

When Jon doesn’t answer, he comes and sits on the coffee table across from him. Without thinking, puts a hand on his knee. Jon looks up sharply. 

“I get it. I... I do. And thank you for telling me now? Seriously. Thank you.” He lets out a huff of laughter, half relief, half exasperation. “But I _swear_ if you ever pull something like this again…” 

Jon wets his lips and swallows thickly. “Understood,” he says, quiet. His gaze when he meets Martin’s again is tentative. 

“Are we, ah-” His brow furrows and he looks as if he’s reconsidering. “Are we okay?” he asks at last. There’s something so open and vulnerable in his expression, in his voice. Martin’s stomach swoops. He softens, despite himself. 

“Yeah, Jon. Christ.” He shakes his head, not entirely succeeding in keeping the small smile from tugging at his lips. “I’m still mad? So keep that in mind? But, apologies - all of them - accepted.” 

And then Jon’s lips quiver into the most beautiful, most hesitant and chastened smile, and it’s all Martin can do to keep from tipping forward and kissing this ridiculous, _infuriating_ man. He feels the color already trying to reach his cheeks, so instead he sits back - withdrawing his hand, while he’s at it - and says, faltering, “I, um. I’m sorry too, for the record? For… some of the things I said. Losing my temper. Not cool of me.” 

Jon smiles properly, then, a wry and self deprecating look. “Even if it was largely true?” 

Martin snorts. “Even so, yeah.” 

Silence falls between them, but only for a moment. Jon, having dropped his gaze to the floor between them, looks up again, decisive. 

“We should- go somewhere,” he says. 

Oh. “Um… like now, or…?” 

“When you’re feeling better,” Jon clarifies. “...And less mad, perhaps.” He flicks his tongue over his lips, looking thoughtful. “We should actually- do something, besides lunch. Go to the, er, the theater, or whatever you like.” His eyes on Martin are dark and intense and earnest. 

Martin blinks at him. His heart skips and then thuds in his ears. “Oh. That sounds… nice?” he says. His mouth is suddenly dry. “Um, um do you mean like- like a-”

“A-- gesture of good will, yes,” Jon says, ducking his head. “A further apology, if you will.” 

The air whooshes out of Martin’s lungs so hard that it hurts. And makes him start coughing. For once he’s grateful for it giving him an excuse to abruptly leap to his feet and stalk across the room, burying his mortification in his shirt sleeve with his hacking cough. 

Right. _Right._ Of course. 

Jon hadn’t just sat there and asked him- _of course,_ he _wouldn’t._

Catching his breath and wiping the moisture from his eyes, he turns back to Jon, who had stood up after him. 

“That, um, that sounds really nice, Jon. Good will accepted.” He gives him a faint smile. “When I’m better, yeah. We’ll have to see about the mad part.” 

“Of course,” Jon nods, looking unfairly, adorably relieved. “Wherever you want to go,” he adds, some of the familiar dryness returning now that things are more or less settled. “I don’t get out enough to have an opinion.”  

Martin doesn’t stay mad nearly as long as he thinks he will. In truth, he’s more or less past it by dinner, sitting on the couch with his book and paying more attention to Jon moving around the kitchen. His ability to hold a grudge against Jonathan Sims had been worn away significantly since the first time he tried. If anything, he's _worried._ But-

But thankfully, his thoughts are insistently more occupied with returning to Jon’s... suggestion, from earlier. His cheeks burn anew thinking about it. About what he’d actually _thought,_ for a wild, implausible half second, was happening. 

...Is it that implausible, though? 

Jon straightens the fresh sunflower on the table; they’ve taken to keeping one ever since Martin brought that first one. It’s just a- a _thing._ Neither of them talk about it. They don’t have to. They both just do their part to keep it going; a happy little part of their daily lives.

Melanie’s words from a few weeks ago come back to him for at least the hundredth time. _In all but name,_ she’d said. 

And just maybe there’s something to be said for that. Martin allows himself a hopeful smile, a fluttering, comfortable feeling, and gets up to go join Jon in the kitchen.

Good will, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :') 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone as always who reads this fic!! I hope you enjoyed the chapter <3 Also as always I am [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come yell at me.


	21. Chapter 21

_Hunted._

Jon turns the word over in his mind while he absently turns the statement in his hands before sliding it back in its proper folder to file away later. 

He’s not particularly worried about alleged wolfmen, so much. Ones in America, even less. Not when they’re being hunted, themselves, right here. At least that’s how it feels. The frequency of worm sightings around the archives has been steadily increasing; plus it seems no matter how many they kill, there are twice that number waiting the next time. 

At least they _can_ kill them. The Michael- person, entity, _thing-_   had been right about that, whatever his intentions: the fire extinguishers are not only effective, but much more efficient than just stomping the worms one by one. 

It’s the only thing that brings Jon any modicum of comfort right now, and even that’s quickly crumbling under the weight of all the _waiting._ Waiting for more worms, waiting for Prentiss herself, waiting to find out what her bloody game is, and what’s taking her so damned long. 

There’s a sound at the door, and Jon flinches and jerks his up head up from where he’d settled it in his hands somewhere in his anxious thought spiral. 

“Sorry,” Sasha says. “Didn’t mean to disturb you. Tim and I- oh hey, you look nice.” She raises her eyebrows, looking impressed. 

Jon glances down at his clothes - most notably the tailored violet button-down that Georgie had bought him year before last - and straightens his sleeve self-consciously, flustering at the compliment. “...Thank you, Sasha. I have... plans after work.” He clears his throat. “Did you need something?” 

“Oh, yeah. Tim and I are checking out that new place that opened last week. The one by the bakery? I thought I’d see if you felt like coming along.” 

“No- no you go on, thank you.” Jon composes himself and pushes his chair back. “I’m leaving early today, so I’d like to get as much work done as possible.” He picks up the file from his desk and makes for the door. 

Sasha lets him pass and then falls in step beside him. _“You’re_ leaving early? Must be some big plans,” she muses.

“Isn’t Tim waiting for you?” he asks, pointedly. 

She laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to pry. Or tell Tim.” She gives him a wave as they part at the end of the hall. “See you, Jon.” 

Jon returns the file to document storage. Stops by the library to see if Diana had found the book he’d been asking after; she had. Drops the book off at Tim’s desk with a note for him to look into it when he returns from lunch. Returns to his office for a desperate attempt to catch up on the organization that he’d fallen even further behind on in recent weeks. 

Around a quarter til four, he gets a text from Martin: _“You haven’t forgotten, right?”_

He scoffs, offended, as he taps at the keypad. _“Of course not.”_ Then, _“How can I, when you’ve reminded me three times today?”_

It had taken a few weeks - Martin’s cough had stubbornly hung on a while longer, and then he’d had to travel to research an alleged poltergeist up north, and then it was always something else, from one side or another.

But finally life had relented, and Jon had secured them both tickets to some show that he’d noted Martin casually mentioning on three separate occasions. His phone buzzes in his hand.

_“Sorry! I just know how you get about work. Later :)”_

Jon has just slipped his phone back in his pocket when it buzzes again. His eyebrow twitches. He opens the message. 

_“At six! Ok sorry bye”_

It doesn’t matter that Martin can’t actually see the flat look he gives the phone; it makes him feel better. 

True to his word, Jon packs up his things and walks out of his office at five-fifteen. Tim looks up as he passes.

“Kind of late for field work, isn’t it? Even for you.” 

“That’s because I’m going home,” Jon says, without pause. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

Tim sits up straighter. “Everything alright with Martin?” 

“As far as I know.” He’s almost made it made it to the stairwell. And then, to his great dismay, Tim makes a noise of understanding. 

“Ahh, gotcha. Date night. Have fun!” 

Jon chokes and nearly trips on his own feet. He whips around to face Tim. “It’s not-- What on earth gave you that idea?” 

Tim shrugs, annoyingly already turned back to his work, like he had stated a simple fact that required no further attention. “You’re leaving before _me,_ for one, and nobody’s dying.” He glances back up and gives Jon a quick once-over. “You’re wearing real clothes - that’s a great color on you, by the way. And you’re acting shady as hell.” He presents the last item with a knowing smirk. 

Jon deigns not to acknowledge Tim’s smirk _or_ his evidence and instead turns an accusing eye on Sasha. “You told him,” he says flatly. 

Sasha doesn’t look up from her laptop. She adjusts her glasses and shakes her head. “I didn’t say a word.” 

“He told _you?”_ Tim turns on her, betrayed. 

“Technically, he never said it was a date,” Sasha points out. “But I suppose it’s kind of obvious.”  

“It’s _not_ a-” At that moment, Jon’s phone buzzes loudly on his hip. He takes it out of his pocket with a fierce scowl and swipes to the exact message he knows will be there: 

_“Hi, last time I promise! I mean, because it’s going on six now, so... Anyway, see you soon?”_

“Who’s that, boss?” Tim asks with a grin, leaning forward on his desk. Sasha hides a smile behind her hand. 

Jon stuffs the phone viciously into the bottom of his bag. “Who do you think?” he snaps. 

Without further delay, he turns on his heel and marches into the stairwell to the sound of triumphant laughter from Tim and respective “Have a good time!”s from the both of them. 

It is going on six, after all.

* * *

 Martin springs up from the couch the second Jon pushes the door open. 

“Jon! You’re here!” He’s smiling brightly, and lets out a relieved little sigh. 

“Yes, Martin,” Jon drones, setting his things down by the door. “I am occasionally capable of competence.” But he can’t help but soften some, seeing just how happy Martin looks, and finds himself returning his smile with a small one of his own. “Well,” he continues briskly, heading for the hall, “I’ll be out in a moment. Are you ready?” 

“Yep, all set.” Martin rocks on his feet, clearly buzzing with nerves. He moves to perch on the arm of the chair, twisting around to watch Jon as he passes. “I’ll just wait here. Whenever you’re ready.” 

Jon brushes his teeth and splashes some water on his face, spritzes on some cologne, and makes an - unfortunately futile - attempt at patting some rebellious bits of hair into place. Back in the living room, he finds Martin standing by the door, fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve. He’s wearing his best slacks and a new shirt he’d bought just for the occasion; a silly expense, Jon had thought, just for going to a play. 

But it had seemed important to Martin, and while Jon doesn’t particularly care much about clothes on other people, the soft pastels brighten Martin’s face and make his eyes stand out in a way that Jon has to admit suits him rather well. 

Martin looks up when he hears Jon’s footsteps, and that happy smile returns. “Hey, ready?” 

“Yes.” Jon joins him at the door, giving himself a quick pat-down to check for his keys and wallet. Their eyes meet; Martin’s warm and pleased and just a tad nervous, and something about it makes Jon falter with his hand halfway to the doorknob. Martin smells like toothpaste and Jon’s shampoo, and his shirt collar is crooked. Jon frowns at it. 

Martin’s smile starts to fade, and he rubs at the back of his neck with a hesitant little laugh. “Uh, Jon? Are you ready to-”

Jon doesn’t know what impulse leads him to reach up just then and straighten out Martin’s collar, but he does - tugging at the crooked side and smoothing it down with his fingers. 

“-Okay?” Martin is frozen, expression a perfect picture of flustered alarm. 

The conscious realization of what he’d just done hits, and Jon jerks his hand back and steps quickly back out of Martin’s space. “I- it was, ah-” He gestures at Martin’s collar. “I was, er, fixing it. Sorry.” 

“Oh! No! No, no it’s- thanks?” Martin’s voice is too high and his cheeks are splotched with color. “Thanks. It’s cool.” He laughs again, patting the material down. “Saved me some embarrassment.” 

Jon nods once, sharply. “Right, well, you- look good.” He blinks, flushes, scowls at the wall next to him. “Nice. You look... the shirt was a good idea.” 

“Yeah?” Martin bites back a grin, looking down at the shirt and shyly smoothing it out. “Thanks, Jon. Um, you too. You look nice, I mean. Which I told you this morning, but…” 

“Right. Thank you.” 

A long handful of seconds passes while they stand there, the words hanging heavy and awkward between them. Until Jon very pointedly checks the time and says, “Well. We should really--”

“Right,” Martin interjects, spurred into action at last and reaching for the door handle. “Yeah, let’s go.”

* * *

They arrive at the theater in plenty of time and Martin breathes a sigh of relief. He really had been keeping his expectations low, just in case. He feels a tremor of anxiety as they shuffle through the crowd outside the building, and catches himself twisting and looking around, checking for anyone suspiciously wormy looking. He flinches when something jostles his arm, and looks over to see Jon hovering close. He’s wearing that particular tense, irritable expression that Martin has come to associate with him feeling vulnerable. 

Or afraid. 

A surge of protectiveness overrides his own anxiety, and Martin puts a hand on Jon’s arm. “Come on,” he says, projecting confidence. “I think we show our tickets over here.” 

They make it to their seats without incident - wormy or otherwise - and get settled in, chatting quietly and looking around while they wait for the show to start. While it’s fresh on his mind, Martin has an idea he’s been mulling over.

“What do you think of corkscrews?” he asks, hushed. 

Jon scrunches his face. “Corkscrews? You’ll have to elaborate.” 

“For the w-” Martin looks around and lowers his voice, lest any nearby worms overhear him. “For the worms. If they, you know, burrow into one of us. Didn’t you say that’s how they do it?”

“Ah.” Jon looks a bit pale. “I- yes. I did.” Shaking himself out of it, he turns back to Martin. “But why corkscrews?” 

 _“Shhh,”_ Martin shushes him. “I was just thinking,” he whispers. “Seems less dangerous than, um, cutting them out? Or something? I’m just thinking,” he adds again, feeling defensive at Jon’s skeptical look. 

Jon lets that go in favor of asking, “Why are we whispering?” 

“In case they hear us?” 

“Who?”

“The worms?”  

And okay, now _that look_ has him really feeling defensive. “I don’t want to be too careful, alright?” he grumbles. _“You_ weren’t held hostage by them for two weeks.” 

Jon looks guilty at that, and relents. “Fine… _fine._ We’ll- pick up some spare corkscrews. Now can we please find a more pleasant topic?” He’s glancing warily at the shadows between the seats. 

Satisfied and now feeling a little guilty himself, Martin mercifully points out something on the stage, and the conversation moves on. 

Sitting here next to Jon - and no longer thinking about the worms - the churning nerves and excitement that have been keeping Martin a fun mix of jittery and nauseous all day return full force. It’s silly, really. It’s not like he and Jon don’t ever go out together. They have lunch multiple times per week. They’ve gone out and done other things now and then. They shop together sometimes. 

Hell, they _live together._

Not to even mention the actual, real date they were on the first time they met, which… yeah. Best _not_ to mention it. 

But there’s no point in pretending that this isn’t different. In some unspoken but unmistakable way, this time is- _different._ It sends his pulse leaping in his throat and leaves a giddy smile hiding at the corners of his mouth.

He glances over at Jon, sitting straight and stiff in his seat, tapping his fingers on the arm rest impatiently. Managing somehow to still look breathtaking at his most blatantly uncomfortable. That piece of hair he’s been messing with since they left flops back over his forehead, and he frowns adorably and tries to blow it back out of his face. 

It’s the most mundane thing, but Martin’s stomach swoops and his hands tense at the reflex to just pull Jon into his arms already.  

The lights dim, and the theater hushes. Martin swallows thickly and forces his eyes back towards the stage. 

Only to suddenly have the light of Jon’s phone dragging them right back. 

 _“Jon,”_ he hisses. “What are you doing?” 

Jon hunches over his phone, shielding it rather ineffectively. “Checking my email. Sasha was supposed to get back to me about-” 

“You- _what?”_ Martin is incredulous. “You had to check _right now?_ The show is literally starting.” 

“I wanted to go ahead before it was officially-” 

“No. No, absolutely- put it _away.”_ Martin glances around nervously, seeing more than a few glares aimed in their direction. He jabs Jon with his elbow. _“Jon. Now.”_

Jon lets out a world-weary sigh. _“Fine.”_ And finally, to Martin’s immense gratitude, turns his phone off and stuffs it into his pocket. Martin turns back once again to face the stage, mouthing an apology to the couple of people still casting dirty looks their way. 

And then the stage lights hum to life and the actors come on stage and it begins. 

Martin is having a great time. He hasn’t been to the theater in ages and he’d forgotten the way a live performance can sweep you up and immerse you in the action and feeling. It’s exhilarating and cathartic and just the break he’s been needing. 

Of course, he keeps stealing glances at Jon; equally enthralled by watching him gradually evolve from stiff and distracted to boredly interested to actively intrigued, sitting forward and intent, eyes fixed on the stage like he’s trying to take in every detail at once. 

A fond smile curves Martin’s lips, and he’s about to turn back to the play when something catches his eye - a spindly, stripey spider crawling along the back of Jon’s chair on the farthest side, its long legs reaching out towards Jon’s shoulder. 

Martin feels a stab of panic; under absolutely no circumstances can Jon be allowed to know what’s about to happen to him. He glances at his face - still transfixed, good - and then slowly, _very slowly,_ stretches his arm across the back of the chair to hopefully shoo the spider before disaster can strike. 

His fingers reach the spider, which is, unfortunately, the embodiment of unconcern. It even wiggles its legs curiously at him before returning to the business of Trying To Crawl Onto Jon. 

 _Shoo,_ Martin wills it silently, clenching his jaw in anxious frustration. _Please, I’m begging you._

The spider helpfully crawls further down, placing itself between the chair and Jon and within perfect squishing range. Great. Now Martin has to worry about both of them. 

He risks another look at Jon - all clear, still, _somehow_ \- and carefully slips his arm behind him. At long last, and Martin could cry in relief, the spider takes the bloody hint and scuttles away. And of course, because this is Martin’s life, Jon chooses that very moment to sit back in his chair. 

He freezes. Martin freezes and his brain fires frantically, trying to land on any explanation at all that will make the least scene for all involved. 

And then his brain stalls altogether when Jon just - relaxes. Settles back against his arm, eyes still intent on the stage, but his mouth fixed in a determined line. 

It takes a moment for Martin to realize the heavy thudding in his ears is his own heart. He lets out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Okay. _Okay,_ so. This is a thing that’s happening. Cool. 

Feeling emboldened, he tentatively curls his hand around Jon’s upper arm. Jon leans in almost imperceptibly towards his shoulder. 

A quiet, breathless little laugh works its way past Martin’s throat. Jon shifts against him, seemingly getting more comfortable. But definitely not moving away. 

Martin finally remembers that there’s an actual play going on that he’d really been enjoying, and forces his attention back to it, trying to catch up. Trying to make room in his brain for anything in addition to the warm, heavy feeling of Jon’s body pressed against him. Awake this time. And on purpose. 

Letting him sort-of-almost cuddle him. 

God. 

He does manage to shift his focus eventually, but he doesn’t quite manage to stop smiling like an idiot for the rest of the show. 

* * *

They go out for a late dinner afterwards, and then after that out for a walk, enjoying the summer night air. Not exactly _fresh,_ and a bit muggy, but after spending so much time shut up indoors after getting sick, Martin is grateful for it. 

So far, Jon hasn’t made any mention of The Incident in the theater, and so Martin definitely hasn’t and doesn’t plan on it. He still catches himself smiling, though, and has to rein it in - a lot harder than it sounds when the memory of Jon encircled by his arm in the dark theater is still only a couple hours old.  

The glow from the storefronts and passing vehicles falls and flickers over them as they walk, and Martin appreciates how utterly lovely Jon looks in each new light. He’s talking now; hands fluttering elegantly as he half-rants about some book he’d been reminded of in the restaurant, more alive and animated than he’s been in months. It makes Martin’s chest ache bittersweetly and brings a breathlessly smitten smile to his lips. He doesn’t try to stop this one. 

They wander their way into a little park - one that Martin recognizes with a rush of nostalgia as the same one he’d found Jon in all those months ago, sat out in the cold and chain smoking over his new promotion. Off the pavement a ways and beneath the orange glow of a streetlamp, he spies the very same bench. 

Chasing a sudden sentimental impulse, he bumps Jon’s shoulder. “Hey, let’s sit down for a bit.” He starts towards the bench, looking back.

Jon frowns at him. “Are you tired?” 

“No...” Martin shrugs. “It’s just a nice spot.” 

“Oh. Well, alright.” Jon looks bemused but follows after him and settles on the bench next to him, their arms and knees brushing. 

Jon looks around curiously. “Wait,” He turns back towards the street, taking in their surroundings. “Isn’t this the place where…” 

Martin ducks his head. “...Where I caught you trying to catch pneumonia and took you for a drink instead? Yep.” He’s both embarrassed at being caught out, and pleased that Jon remembers. 

“Right, yes.” Jon nods, looking thoughtful. “You also hated me then, if I remember.” 

“Hey, if it helps, it was the _last_ time I hated you.”

Jon snorts. “Good to know.” 

The sit in easy silence after that, letting the sounds of the city and the trees and the night around them envelope them in their own world, just the two of them. No fear, no stress, no doubt or worry or damned _worms-_ just, them. Martin thinks he’d stay here forever if he could. 

It’s Jon who breaks the silence by clearing his throat. Martin looks over at him. Their faces are close enough that his breath ruffles Jon’s hair. 

Jon tilts his head, taps his thumb against his knee. Searching for words, Martin knows. “Do you remember our first d- ah, how we met?” 

“Oh god.” Martin sits back on the bench, letting his head fall back. He laughs a little, pained. “Yeah, Jon. How could I forget?” 

“Sorry,” Jon says, also sitting back. Mirroring him. “I wasn’t trying to bring up bad memories.” He casts a rueful look Martin’s way, before averting his eyes, brow furrowed. “I was just thinking that I’m- glad it happened. The, uh, few unfortunate months aside.” He shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose before returning his hand to his lap where it clenches reflexively. 

It’s a simple enough declaration, and an obvious one; no grand revelation. But just hearing Jon admit out loud that he’s glad to have him in his life makes Martin’s heart flutter unfairly in his chest, and he thinks he might melt. Or kiss him. But no, he can’t- he _won’t,_ do that. But god-- 

“Me too, Jon,” he says, and pours all of his helpless affection into it. 

Jon looks up at him then, and offers him a genuine smile before turning his gaze back on the surrounding shadows. He lets his hand slide off his lap, where it lands on Martin’s. His eyes go wide and his cheeks flush the prettiest color in the glow of the streetlamp and Martin’s fluttering heart skips several beats. There’s a heavy pause, there are Jon’s fingers curling softly against Martin’s, Martin upturning his palm, a tentative, tremulous brush of skin, and they lace their fingers together while Jon breathes in sharply and Martin doesn’t dare breathe at all. 

The moment stretches on forever, and Martin finally tears his eyes away from Jon’s profile to risk a peek at their hands, almost afraid all of this will disappear if he acknowledges it too closely. 

But sure enough, there are their hands, clasped together in the small space between them. Martin’s lips part as he releases a hushed breath, carefully, just barely, rubbing his thumb over Jon’s. 

Real. Real and warm and perfect; Jon’s hand surprisingly soft, his racing pulse in his fingertips. 

Martin settles back against the bench again, scarcely feeling it for all that he feels like he’s floating. A heartbeat later, Jon relaxes beside him.

Neither of them speaks again. It’s as if they’re both afraid to break the spell of the little world they’ve found for themselves on this park bench, held together by their silence and their entwined fingers. 

The spell has to break eventually, however; and it finally does when Jon sits forward, letting out a quiet sigh. “We... should probably head back,” he says, low and quiet.  

Martin blinks and looks over at him. “Right, yeah. Sure. I imagine it’s pretty late.” He glances down at their hands again, just to prove to himself that this really happened. 

It did. 

He lets out a disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head, still feeling a bit dazed. Jon looks flustered and like he’s trying hard not to as he carefully disengages and rises to his feet. Martin stands with him, grimacing at his stiff knees, and they make their way back to the street.

* * *

The first half of their trip home is quiet and contemplative. 

By the time they arrive back at the flat, Martin is leaning into Jon’s shoulder, giggling breathlessly while Jon insists that, “I’m _serious,_ Martin.” 

“I believe you!” Martin says, trying his best to rein in his mirth. “It’s just that- that _you,_ working a haunted house, you _have_ to see why it’s funny.” 

“I was sixteen,” Jon grouses. “We all had our after school jobs.” 

“Do you think it awakened anything in you?” Martin tries to ask the question seriously. “Hence, you know, spooky career.”

Jon pulls away to glare at him, but without much effect. “Martin, you hunt ghosts for a living.” 

“I _research_ ghosts,” Martin points out. He stands back while Jon unlocks the door. “So other people can hunt them. Big difference.” 

“Of course. I apologize for the oversight,” Jon says dryly, pushing the door open and stepping inside. Martin follows him, stepping out of his shoes and stifling a yawn. 

Jon announces that he’s going to go get ready for bed, and makes for the hall, skirting gingerly around the air mattress on the floor like a cat trying to avoid something unsavory. It sets Martin giggling all over again. He rolls his eyes fondly and goes to get ready as well. 

The bedroom door is open when he’s changed and brushed his teeth, so he looks in. Jon is sitting on the bed against the headboard, laptop open on his lap. 

“Jon, really?” 

“Just checking my email.” 

Martin shuffles over to the bed, flopping heavily onto it. It jostles the laptop off of Jon’s lap, earning him an offended sound. 

_“Really?”_

“...Sorry,” Martin offers, then crawls up to join him by the headboard. He stares down at his hand, curling his fingers, still in wonder, still feeling the skin thrumming where Jon’s hand was entwined with it. Casts a shy glance at Jon.

“I, um. I had a really good time tonight,” he tells him. “Thanks.” 

That gets him a hum in response and Martin thinks, a bit disappointed, that that’s all he’s going to get, until Jon looks up. “...So did I,” he says, soft and rumpled in his faded t shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, and looking just a little shy, himself. 

And really, Martin’s heart just can’t take much more of this. He chews his lip, glances down at their hands, so close again but unbearably far now that they’ve been closer. He wonders, here out of the shadows of the park _,_ what would happen if he closed those last couple inches between them. If Jon would let him cradle his hand in his palm; if he’d let him cradle his cheek, cup his jaw and tip his head up and kiss him here under the bright bedroom light where they can’t pretend it didn’t happen. 

His eyes flick from Jon’s, to his mouth, and he wonders, is all. Their fingers brush on top of the duvet. 

And then something on the laptop screen catches Jon's attention. He sits up sharply and swears under his breath. 

Martin straightens up too, worried. “What? What’s wrong?”   

“Nothing,” Jon tells him, already distracted. He closes his laptop. “Email from Sasha earlier; she found the Jane Prentiss statement.” He slides off the bed and stoops down to slip his shoes on.

“Oh. Well, that’s g- wait.” Martin climbs off after him. “Where the hell are you going?” 

“Back to the institute.” Jon heads for hall. “I’ll be back in a while.” 

“Are you serious? Jon! Can you even get in this late?” 

Jon doesn’t reply.

“You’re in your pajamas!” 

His footsteps fade, followed by the opening and closing of the front door. 

Martin stares down the hall in open-mouthed disbelief. Eventually he forces himself to move and trudges back over to Jon’s bed, where he throws himself onto it with an exasperated sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, crying softly onto my desk while writing this, 
> 
> I love them so much, y'all. I hope you enjoyed this chapter in all of its beautifully agonizing pining softness :') Thank you as always, SO MUCH, for reading!! Find me at [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you wish.
> 
> EDIT, AS OF 10/31/19 - [HERE](https://marina-does-things.tumblr.com/post/188722465251/just-thought-id-post-this-before-tumblr-explodes/) is some absolutely breathtaking art of the park scene done by the wonderful [marina-does-things](https://marina-does-things.tumblr.com/) . Thank you again so much for the time and effort you put into creating something for this fic? I love it so much and I'm going to be smiling forever.


	22. Chapter 22

“It was actually really romantic? Not even trying to be, but we were surrounded by trees, and the glow of streetlamp gave everything this, this almost otherworldly feel? And then when our hands touched, I _swear_ time slowed d-” 

Martin’s dreamy recollection is interrupted by Melanie slurping loudly through her straw. 

He gives her a flat look over the rusted metal railing he’s propped himself on. “You know, you _did_ ask.” 

“How the date went,” she corrects, pushing herself up from her spot on the floor. “Not for a play-by-play of the most slow burn hand holding in the history of romance.” She dusts herself off and goes to toss her cup in the bin they’d brought in. “Besides,” she adds, “I’m waiting for the part where you asked him out. I wanna see how hard I should be judging him.” 

Martin suddenly finds the peeling wallpaper incredibly interesting. “Do you think there really is, um, a poltergeist in here?” he asks casually. 

There’s a heavy pause. Then, “Oh my god.” 

He winces. Turns around slowly. Winces again at Melanie’s viciously incredulous expression. 

“Oh my _god,”_ she repeats. “You didn’t do it! Even after all of-” she gestures and pulls a vaguely disgusted face. _“-that.”_

“It’s not that easy!” Martin crosses his arms defensively. 

“What’s so hard about it?” she counters, crossing _her_ arms. “The man’s already your boyfriend. You just have to let _him_ know that.” 

Martin slumps back against the wall with a groan, letting his arms drop helplessly to his sides. “It’s not- it’s not like-” He huffs, sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. “What if I ruin everything?” Melanie starts to argue but he cuts her off. “I mean it! Things are, are _good_ now. Really, really good. I’m happy. I really don’t need anything else? Not if it means losing what I’ve got.” 

He slides down the wall to sit on the dusty floor, knees drawn up to his chest. 

Melanie regards him for a long moment. Finally she puffs out her cheeks and makes her way over to perch across from him on an overturned bucket. And then proceeds to have absolutely none of it.

“...Anyway,” she says decisively. “Just say, ‘Jonathan Sims, light of my life, or whatever gross thing you call him in your head, would do me the honor of-”

 _“Melanie.”_ Martin’s cheeks flush hot. “First of all, it’s not a bloody marriage proposal-” 

“It’ll have to be, by the time you two get around to it,” she retorts. 

He lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud, ignoring the specks of what is hopefully dust but probably mold that drift down onto his shoulders. “Why do you even care so much?” he whines. “You don’t even _like_ Jon.” 

“Can’t stand him,” she agrees, with a dry bark of laughter. “And I have no clue what you and Georgie see in him.” She lets out a long-suffering sigh. “But against all reason  - and good taste - you’re in love with the bastard and he makes you happy.” 

She shrugs, a flippant gesture. “You deserve to be happy.” 

Martin huffs softly and looks down at his lap. Shakes his head, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Fine, god. I’ll do it.” At Melanie’s disbelieving sound, “I really will! When I get back tomorrow.” He plucks at the fabric of his trousers. “...If he’s in a good mood.” 

Now Melanie groans. “In that case, I won’t be holding my breath.” She checks the time. “Alright, back to work. Let’s see if we can catch one of those floating chairs. Maybe you can stand out of frame and throw some shit.” 

“I’m glad integrity is alive and well on youtube.” Martin rolls his eyes and stands to follow her. 

“Hey, it’s only for backup footage.” 

“You know-” Martin clambers over a box of rotting pallets “-Jon was starting to sort of respect my job?” 

“Oh what, and you tell Jon everything?” Melanie grins at him over her shoulder. It dims when he doesn’t immediately answer. “Oh, you do. Ew.” 

The rest of the day passes impossibly slowly, but Martin can’t say he minds all that much. It gives him time to think. To plan out what he’s going to say. Y’know, _when he finally asks Jon out. For real. Officially. It’s happening._

A bit too much time to think about it, he realizes later, when he’s going on his third hour lying awake in his sleeping bag. He flops onto his side as exasperatedly as possible while not waking anyone or getting mistaken for paranormal activity. His stomach flutters and his skin tingles. 

He’s asking Jon out. And he’s- not one hundred percent sure that Jon is going to say yes, you never can tell with Jon, but he _could._ They went on a date. They cuddled, sort of. They _held hands, for god’s sake._

So, all said, Martin doesn’t feel too badly about his odds, really? 

A wide, giddy smile is threatening to take over his face, and he smothers it in his pillow. Alright then. 

He’s doing this.   

* * *

Jon pushes open the door of the institute and settles down on the steps for his break. He hadn’t planned on taking one, but Martin made him promise during their call this morning. Hopeless. Jon shakes his head at the memory. He truly is hopeless. 

He leans against the railing and absently watches the street. Eventually - as has become his habit the past three days - his gaze falls to his hand. He lifts it up, traces the lines of his palm. Even now his heart speeds up at the memory of Martin’s hand sliding and pressing against it, lacing their fingers together. 

And Jon hasn’t... _held hands_ with anyone since Georgie. Well, obviously. There aren’t exactly a wealth of opportunities for sappy romance in his life. But it’s never even occurred to him as something he’d like to do again, if such a small gesture would have occurred to him at all. Silly. Pointless. Too warm and awkward and inconvenient.  

It had been all of those things, with Martin. 

And it had been perfect. 

He clenches the hand into a fist and firmly places it by his side, scowling out across the street. The whole damned night had been perfect. It had been everything he never thought he wanted again. Had taken the feelings he’s only recently grudgingly accepted and displayed them for him in sharp relief; put a name to them that he’d found himself… surprisingly okay with. 

Until he’d realized that after all _that,_ he’s sort of obligated to do something about them. 

He stretches his legs out on the steps and lets his head fall against the railing. Deflated. Resigned. Definitely not panicking. See how relaxed he is? 

A muscle in his jaw twitches. 

How hard can it be? Especially since they’re already- well. Things between them are… complex, certainly. More so than simple friendship. And Jon hasn’t put a label on it, himself; hasn’t been ready to, hasn’t seen the need to, but... 

Suffice it to say that half his work is already done for him, if everyone else’s perception can be trusted. If he chooses to just be honest with himself for once in his life. All he has to do is say a few words and make it official. 

Hopefully. 

Unless he’s read everything horribly, embarrassingly wrong. But he knows that, unfortunately, even he isn’t that inept.  

Of course, things are fine as they are. He’s - hilariously enough, considering his life right now outside of Martin - _happy._ He’s happy. They’re happy. Whatever they have, it works. No need to go interfering with a good thing; especially when interfering in general on Jon’s part tends to go remarkably poorly. Except-

He deflates further and the hard metal digs into his shoulder. Maybe he can meld into it. Become one. Metal railings don’t have to worry about _romance_ and _feelings_ and _irrevocably fucking up one of the only good things in their life._

Except he wants to do this right. 

After Georgie, he never saw himself finding anyone he could even consider being with. Had accepted that he wasn’t the sort who did that, who made a life with another person, wasn’t the sort that anyone on earth could want to actually make a life with. That he didn’t care anyway. And he didn’t. He really didn’t. But now there’s Martin, and he’s going to do this right.

Because Martin deserves it. Because Martin deserves- well, better, honestly. _God, so much better._ But at the very least he deserves an unambiguous declaration; for better or worse, to know for certain just how deeply Jon lo- 

Right. Jon grasps the railing and hauls himself stiffly to his feet. Idly watches the passing traffic; wonders what would happen if he just started running. 

“You’d make it two blocks before you collapsed, and then you’d _still_ have to tell Martin how you feel,” he mutters dryly. Well. That option has been explored, at least. A heavy sigh drags out of his lungs, and he turns and trudges back into the building. 

He’s doing this

And he’s _terrified._

* * *

“So, Jon, I’ve been thinking. We’ve been- we’ve been, um, we’ve known each other for a good while now. And I really enjoy your company! And I think you enjoy mine? ...Ah, damn it.” 

Martin slumps forward, letting his forehead collide with the bathroom door. He’s been practicing this since he got home and he still can’t find a way to ask that doesn’t sound stupid. He puffs out a breath against the door and pushes himself off of it, glaring at his reflection staring miserably at him from over the sink.

“You’re hopeless, you know,” he tells it. “A hopeless _idiot.”_

He paces the bathroom as agitatedly as he can in the small space. “Why do I feel like this would be easier if we _weren’t_ practically half dating already?” He kicks at a damp towel left on the floor. “It’s just- it’s awkward. It makes it awkward! What am I even supposed to say?” 

Stopping in front of the mirror again, he bites out, sarcastically, “Hey, Jon, literally everyone thinks we’re a couple already, including us I think, so wanna just go ahead and bloody _say it-”_

“Martin?” 

Martin yelps and startles, staggering back and nearly tripping on that same towel. He hadn’t heard the front door open. Christ. “Back here! Be out in a second!” 

Giving himself a second to catch his breath and for his heart to slow to a normal, non-suspicious pace, he makes a show of turning on the tap and washing his hands. Once he finally ventures out into the rest of the flat, he finds Jon sat at the kitchen table, studying this week’s sunflower with an oddly intent expression. 

Fondness blooms in Martin’s chest. He hurries over and takes his own seat at the table. Curls his hands in his lap. Bites back a smile. “Hi.” 

“...Hi.” Jon glances up at him, and then drops his gaze to the table where his hands are laced together in front of him. “Martin, I need to talk to-”

“I need to talk to y- oh.” Martin blinks. 

Jon looks up sharply, a worried little crease between his brows. “Oh. Well, what did you need to…?”

“No! No, no, you go first,” Martin laughs, rubbing at the back of his neck. And there goes all of his nerve. Great. “You look like there’s something on your mind..?”

“I could say the same for you.” Jon frowns at him curiously. 

 _“Jon.”_ He forces his fingers to relax their grip on the hem of his shirt. Lightly, not even remotely tremulously, “Trust me, mine’s kind of, um. You go first? Please?” 

There’s a beat, and Jon’s eyes bore into him for a moment longer before he relents. “...Fine.” His shoulders tense, and his thumb starts doing its agitated tapping on the scuffed surface. Martin reaches out and stops it by covering Jon’s hand with his own. 

“Hey,” he says. “What’s up?” 

Jon looks down at their hands, brows drawn. Runs his tongue over his teeth. Finally he takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly. Begins:

“Martin, I… Well, first, I need you to know that-” He glances up and meets Martin’s eyes and his words abruptly stall with a choked sound. 

Martin tilts his head, waiting. Patient.

Jon shakes his head and tries again. “-I… think we need to- go shopping.” He slips his hand out from beneath Martin’s and pushes his chair back. “We’re out of almost everything. We can pick up some takeout on the way back, if you like.” He stands and strides briskly out of the kitchen. 

“What the- Jon!” Martin hurriedly shoves his own chair back and chases after him.  

“Do you remember that new tea you tried last time?” Jon grabs his wallet off the table. “I think I liked it better than the old one. Let’s get that again.” 

Martin rushes to catch him at the door and grabs onto his sleeve. “Jon.” 

He stills, then turns and gives Martin a tight smile. “Yes?” 

 _Convincing._ Martin just barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. “Are you alright?” 

“...Fine, Martin.” Jon gives a soft laugh and averts his eyes. “Sorry, I- it was just a long day. I’m a bit out of sorts.” Then, looking suddenly guilty, “Right, sorry, you- you had something you wanted to say..?” 

Oh, like hell he’s going to say it now. Martin studies Jon’s face, his posture. He looks- tense. Tired. That’s nothing new, but… maybe it really was just a long day? Regardless, probably not the best time for a relationship talk. Ah, well. He frowns, but slowly lets go of Jon’s sleeve. 

“Eh, I had a long day, too.” He gives Jon a soft, reassuring smile. “It can wait.” 

* * *

Jon Sims is officially a coward. And an idiot. Can’t forget that. 

A cowardly, stupid, absolute _idiot._

He shoves his face into his pillow, despairing. Because he’s currently curled up in bed just after eight in the evening, under the guise of ‘not feeling well’. And he isn’t, really. Not with the way his stomach is churning so violently that he could barely get his lunch down today and couldn’t even begin to think about dinner. 

After the disaster of yesterday’s attempt - and calling that an attempt is incredibly generous, he realizes - Jon had sworn to himself that _today,_ today he was going to do it. He even took an early lunch for some extra time, got the two of them a table at that nice cafe that Martin has been going on about visiting.

Martin had been so pleased, surprised, had asked kindly if he was having a better day today. Had smiled such a relieved, happy smile when Jon had told him yes. 

“Great,” he’d said. “I’m glad,” he’d said. 

“Ah,” Jon had said, all coherent thought immediately exiting his brain.

The lunch had gone well enough, all things considered. Aside from the blood rushing in his ears. Aside from the way he had to expend half of his brain power to keep his knee from bouncing beneath the table. And the way he’d spent the entire morning rehearsing exactly how he was going to _say it,_ only to find his words jumbling in the back of his throat and his tongue turned to lead. 

And he felt bad, he _feels_ bad, because Martin had been saying- something. Had reached over and squeezed Jon’s wrist and given him an earnest look that had Jon’s heart racing even as his mind was frantically scrambling a good thousand miles elsewhere. 

“Jon?” 

Jon flinches, the present crashing back around him. He can feel Martin watching him from the dim doorway. Maybe if he’s really still, Martin will think he’s sleeping and leave him to his anxious recollections. He relaxes into the sheets, closing his eyes.

Quiet footsteps approach the bed. Something is set down on the nightstand. “I brought you some tea? And some broth, if you’re feeling up to drinking anything.” The duvet is tugged up over his shoulders. Gentle fingers card through his hair, and Jon’s chest hurts. 

He could say it now. Could grab Martin’s wrist and just blurt his feelings out in whatever tangled mess he finds them in. It would be absurd, and horribly timed, and frankly quite fitting for the two of them. For _him._  

But then the fingers are gone, and the footsteps are retreating, and Jon is alone with his blankets and failure and unspoken l- 

He sits up and takes the mug of tea, cradling it in his hands. Absorbing the warmth. It reminds him of Martin. 

And Jon is an _idiot._

* * *

Jon is gone when Martin goes to check on him the next morning. Both mugs are empty, he’s pleased to see, and there’s a hastily scribbled note on the nightstand. 

_Thank you. I’m feeling much better today. See you tonight._

Martin’s teeth worry at his bottom lip as he gathers up the mugs and takes them into the kitchen. He leaves them in the sink with a sigh and goes to get ready for work. 

Yesterday. Yesterday he was definitely going to do it. Jon was in a better mood, they were having a lovely lunch in that one cafe, the one with the plants - it was perfect. Memorable. He was ready. His hands barely shook and his heart barely raced.

And he’d barely even got the first words out before Jon had scraped his chair back with a loud racket and had practically run to the restroom, leaving Martin blinking after him, the rest of his words fading into the empty space across from him.  

Jon had come back ten minutes later looking pale and agitated and claiming to not feel well. He’d insisted on going back to work, against Martin’s most vehement protests, but had come home early and gone straight to bed. So. 

So much for _that._

Martin lets out another, much louder, sigh as he reaches in to turn on the shower. Reminds himself not to be annoyed at Jon as he lathers his hair. It’s not like he wanted to get sick. And honestly, for Jon to even admit it, he had to be feeling horribly. 

“But _still.”_ Martin whines the words into the slick shower wall, letting the water beat against his back. “It figures,” he mumbles. “Every bloody chance in the world, and when I finally get up the nerve to _take one…”_

No matter. He straightens up and resumes washing with renewed determination. He’s been sitting on this for months already; one more day won’t kill him.

...Melanie might, if he waits too much longer, but he’ll deal with that particular dilemma when the time comes. 

He adds some fresh water to the vase on the table before he leaves. Hums softly to himself on his way out of the flat, his initial excitement beginning to return. 

This is still going to happen. He’s confident. He can wait a bit longer. 

* * *

...And so he does. 

Because he doesn’t see Jon that night, turns out. 

 _“Sorry,”_ he’d texted. _“I got caught up.”_

And then he gets caught up the next day, too. 

Irritably brushes off Martin’s attempts at conversation the following evening, vaguely citing ‘needing to research something for a statement’. 

Corners him in the kitchen the day after, hand on his arm and eyes intense and serious in a way that immediately has Martin’s heart in his throat - before stammering out a thank you for washing the dishes and stalking back into his bedroom, where he locks himself for the rest of the night. 

And so an entire week passes in the same awkward, infuriating dance, and Martin’s confidence is finally starting to flag.

He closes the book on his lap, resigned, and sets it on the bench beside him. He’s long since given up on actually getting any reading done for the duration of his break. 

The final straw had been last night. They’d finally, _finally_ got some time together. Martin had a documentary he’d been wanting to watch; half for his own interest and half because he was sure it would interest Jon, and maybe even get him to spend more than a few minutes in the same room with him. And it had. It had been great.

Martin had settled near Jon on the couch, and gradually they’d slanted towards one another until their shoulders were pressed tight together and their hands overlapped on the cushion between them. Jon was- well, tense, he’d been so bloody _tense_ all week - but he seemed content enough. 

Until he hadn’t. Until Martin had given his hand a gentle squeeze, had given him a soft smile when Jon turned to look at him, had said, “Hey, you know, I’ve been thinking…” at the same moment Jon had said, “Martin-” 

...And then Jon had excused himself, claiming he’d heard his phone. Which he’d left lying on the coffee table in front of them.

Guess whether he came back for it. _Guess._

Martin checks the time, checks his messages, scrubs a hand over his face and slumps forward on the bench. His stomach sinks under the weight of the undeniable realization - Jon is avoiding him. 

_Again._

He laughs; a dry, bitter sound. Something of a pattern, this. And he’s more than a little fed up, if he’s being honest. 

He just- he doesn’t- 

“I don’t _get it.”_ He scuffs his foot over a clump of grass. A tiny, translucent spider scuttles out. “Things have been going so well,” Martin tells it, a touch of desperation creeping into his voice. “They really, really have.” 

Ever since their fight and subsequent talk, Jon had been open. Communicative. For Jon, at least. They’d fallen deeper into their easy routines and their casual affections and the little life they shared together. And then there was their- 

“-Well, we never outright called it a date, I guess. But it was, alright? It was a date. We were happy. We were- or I _thought_ we were- _hell everyone thought-”_ His voice breaks a little on the last bit, and he sniffs and swipes at his suddenly stinging eyes. The spider taps its tiny feet sympathetically. Ever the good listener, spiders. 

Martin sits up and takes a deep, shaky breath. “Right. Right. No sense in breaking down. Making a bigger fool of myself than I already have. Okay.” 

He scours every memory of that night, every moment of it and every moment after for some sign of where it went wrong. The intense concentration on Jon’s face when he’d stepped up and fixed Martin’s collar. Jon looking anxiously around at the crowd, and the way the fear on his face had eased and he’d moved closer when Martin had guided him towards the ticket counter. The way he’d leaned into Martin’s arm, leaned against _him_ \- practically cuddling - throughout the duration of the show. 

The way he’d smiled his gentle, breathless smile at Martin across the table at dinner afterwards; the one he seems to save for him alone. The way he’d been so animated, so much happier than Martin had seen him since everything that happened with Jane Prentiss.

He remembers the look on Jon’s face, quiet and earnest and shy, when he’d told Martin that he was glad they’d met. 

Remembers Jon’s hand delicately lacing with his own, warm and slim and perfect, remembers Jon’s pulse racing against his palm, Jon’s cheeks dusted pink and his soft, surprised expression that melts Martin’s heart anew every time he closes his eyes.

Martin thinks about the past several months - Jon gradually softening, opening up, fretting over him, insisting he stay with him, all of the dozens of simple gestures in place of the words he can never seem to find. 

Thinks about how now, now that it’s finally turning tangible and real, now that Martin has been trying his damnedest to put a name to it...

“No,” he whispers fiercely. “I’m not- I’m not imagining this. I’m not.” He stands up, careful, still, not to step on the spider at his feet. Picks up his book and tucks it decisively into his bag and straightens up, shoulders squared, jaw set. 

Jon isn’t obligated to date him, of course, regardless of anything that’s come before. Is within his rights to back out as much as he’d like, any time he’d like. Of course. Obviously.

But they’re going to _talk about this._ Martin is done. He’s done dancing around each other and pretending like nothing is happening. Even if Martin is a fool, here, there’s no way _literally everyone else they know_ is as stupid as he is. That many people can’t be wrong. And he’s not either.

For better or worse and whatever comes of it after, they’re talking about it. 

Martin strides across the park. Back to the street, where he hails a cab and gives the driver the address to the Magnus Institute. 

* * *

It’s quiet. 

Too damned quiet. 

Jon glances at the clock; Tim and Sasha have been gone for half an hour. He’d been grateful for the quiet at first, grateful for a moment alone with his thoughts. But now, with his nerves jittering and his self loathing roaring on a loop in his head, he’d give anything for one of Tim’s tasteless jokes to drown it all out and give him some peace. 

He pushes his chair back and stands up to pace his office for the- he’s lost count how many times. Rakes a hand through his hair. Takes his glasses off, wipes them on his shirt, resettles them. All on autopilot, an agitated ritual. 

The past week had been… well. A monumental failure. And he has no one to blame but himself. 

“Don’t get all in your head about this,” Georgie had scolded him. “You feel the same way you’ve felt all this time. Now you’re just going to say it out loud. It’s only a big deal if you let it be.” 

To which Jon had responded that he’s only just got around to telling Martin he’s glad they _know each other,_ and Georgie had simply offered him a sympathetic smile and a pat on the knee and he believes they’d both given him up for a bit of a lost cause, just then. 

Never mind the fact that getting in his head about things is a lifelong habit that Jon doesn’t see himself breaking any time soon. Never mind the fact that the ‘this’ in question is looking one of the most important people in his life in the face and telling him, for only the second time telling anyone ever, that he’s in l- 

 _-Telling him,_ and hoping he’ll look back at Jon and all of his shortcomings and deem it good enough. 

Never mind the fact that he’s fully aware that, once again, he’s been a massive prick and that any chances he had of Martin accepting his affections have probably been reduced to nearly none. 

He throws himself back into his seat and slumps forward on his desk. His fingers twitch against the disheveled stack of statements there. He’s _tried._ He honestly has. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe it’s for the best to just let this go, let it fizzle out, let Martin move on to someone who can actually give him the relationship he deserves. Let alone string a damned sentence together. 

Jon sits up slowly, feeling… tired. He’s just- tired. He grabs a statement off the stack and reaches for the tape recorder. 

And nearly knocks it off the desk entirely when the door slams open and he jumps to his feet with a shout. 

“Sorry!” Martin says, wincing. Panting and flushed and looking half wild. “Sorry, that was more, um, aggressive than I’d- look, we need to talk.” 

 _“Christ.”_ Jon grabs the edge of his desk and puts his other hand to his chest, worried for a second that his heart might beat right out of it. He looks back up at Martin, frowning. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here, Martin. I’ve told you-”

“I know, I _know,_ and I’m sorry,” Martin cuts in, waving him off. He steps into the office. “But we need to talk. And if I have to corner you here and risk Elias getting mad at me, or...” He lifts his chin. Folds his arms across his chest. “So be it.” 

Jon’s heart continues racing for an entirely different reason. He swallows thickly and straightens up. This is it, then. He’s finally done it. He supposes there had to be a limit, after all. Keeping his voice and face as neutral as possible, he says, “...Fine. Alright. What do we need to talk about?” 

Martin takes a deep breath. “Us.” 

Ah. There it is. Jon feels oddly cold; iciness radiating out from the pit in his stomach. “Us,” he repeats. 

“Yeah.” Martin breathes out the word. He drops his arms to his sides, shifts on his feet. But his eyes don’t leave Jon’s face, serious and more intent than Jon’s seen him yet. “Look, Jon. You’ve been, you’ve been- I know you’re avoiding me.” 

Jon does drop _his_ eyes, however. 

Martin continues, “We’ve been over this! I’m not stupid, and, and I can put two and two together. And it’s- we’re not doing this okay? It’s ridiculous, it’s been months, we’re not doing it. I won’t. Not anymore.” 

“I understand,” Jon says soberly. His fingers curl at his sides, but he forces them to relax. He’s not going to make a scene of things. Not going to make this about him. It’s the least he can do. 

He hears Martin breathing, hears his shifting weight, hears him _thinking,_ searching for the words Jon knows are coming and he desperately wishes he’d just get on with it already. Get on with it so Jon can start getting on with the rest of his life. 

A sigh. A nervous half laugh. “Jon…” 

Jon steels himself, rapidly cycling through whatever combination of words may be about to pierce his heart. Trying to be as prepared as he can in the short span of seconds. _I’m moving out. I don’t think we should see each other anymore. You’re selfish and unbearable and I regret ever meeting you and I-_

“I love you.” 

The words rush together and hang suspended in the stuffy, still air, and it takes Jon far too long to realize they’d fallen from his own lips. When he does, the moment shatters and he snaps his mouth shut and whips his head up to look at Martin- 

Martin, who is openly gaping at him, lips parted halfway through a sentence and his cheeks rapidly turning an alarming shade of pink. 

“Jon…” he says, faintly. “Jon, you- you what? What did you-” 

“I’m sorry,” Jon blurts out at the same moment, the blood draining from his face. “I- I’m sorry, Martin, I shouldn’t have- I know the timing is… suspect, but I promise I had no intention of-” 

“Did you really just say that you-” 

“-trying to change your mind in any way-” 

“-you _love_ me?” Martin’s eyes are still wide and shocked, but his mouth is starting to curve into a soft, disbelieving smile. 

Jon frowns at him, taken aback. He opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted by an odd sound behind him. Scraping, chalky and grinding, like something chewing through the- 

Martin’s smile fades and he goes suddenly pale as his gaze shifts past Jon’s shoulder. Jon whirls around to see a hole in the wall that definitely wasn’t there before. And pouring out of the hole are dozens of silvery, squirming worms. 

Well. 

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :') 
> 
> Just. 
> 
> :') 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter!! Thank you for reading! And always you can come yell at me at [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way this chapter worked, it only ended up being Jon's pov, but we'll definitely get Martin's thoughts in the aftermath next chapter!

They’re alive.

Jon is lying stretched on the flimsy cot he uses when he stays in the archives overnight, breathing harshly through his teeth as the multiple new holes in his flesh throb with pain. 

Sasha, who they’d run into - literally - in their flight from the office, is sat nearby on a dusty storage bin. Her glasses are askew and the corkscrew hanging loosely in her hand glistens with blood. 

Martin stands by the door of the storage room they’ve taken refuge in, anxiously watching out the window. His breath is coming in shallow bursts and he looks like he’s actively trying not to be sick. Guilt rises thick and choking in Jon’s throat. 

But they’re alive.

Martin glances back at the two of them. “Alright?” 

“Fine,” Sasha says at the same moment Jon automatically grits out, _“No.”_

The guilt rises higher at Martin’s sharp, worried look, and Jon sighs and amends, “...But I will be. I’m- alright, all things considered.” 

“And lucky,” Sasha points out. “I still can’t believe you _risked your life_ for a stupid tape recorder.” 

Jon groans, whether from irritation or pain, even he isn’t sure. “I said I was sorry,” he snips, defensive. “Can we please not do this again, right now?” He clutches the tape recorder to his chest, and then at the _look_ he gets from both Martin and Sasha, reluctantly lowers it back to his side. 

Silence falls on the room - but for the muffled, wet squelch of worms outside. Eventually, Sasha pushes herself up and makes her way over to Martin.

“How are we looking?” 

Martin moves aside so she can see. “Well, there are a lot of them on the floor, and more coming in all the time. But so far the door is holding them off.” 

Something occurs to Jon - it had before, but he’d been a bit busy getting worms pulled out of his leg to give it much attention at the time. 

To Martin, “How did you even think of hiding in here?” He struggles to sit up, and Martin makes a quiet reproving sound and hurries over to help him. Jon takes his arm gratefully, and lets himself be gently pulled upright and propped against the wall. 

He looks around, impressed. “It certainly didn’t occur to me - though it should have. This is the perfect safe room.” 

“Oh.” Martin flushes, some small color finally returning to his cheeks. He straightens up and looks around too, looking faintly pleased. 

“Tim took me on sort of a tour one day? While I was waiting for you.” He shrugs. “He showed me this room, told me all about it. Air tight, all that. ...Well, mostly he said it’d be a good place for you and I to sneak off to- ah. Um.” He cuts off abruptly, eyes going wide and mortified. Jon chokes. Sasha snorts. 

Martin shuts his eyes and frantically waves away Tim’s all too clear intentions. “Doesn’t matter! Doesn’t-- Anyway. I’d honestly forgotten about it? Until it came back to me in the moment, I guess.” 

Jon blinks and averts his eyes, definitely feeling some renewed color in his face as well. “Right. Right, well. I’m glad it did. It is the most secure place we’ll find down here. I’ll have to thank Tim, later. Even if his motivations were… well...”

“Very Tim,” Martin supplies, giving a nervous laugh. “Yeah.” 

“Yes,” Jon agrees, staring hard at his lap. “Even so.” 

“Speaking of,” Sasha interrupts, frowning at her phone. “I still can't reach him. There's no signal in here." 

With some difficulty - and grateful for the change of subject, grim as it is - Jon fishes his phone out of his pocket to check the time. “Do you know how long he’d planned to stay in the library?” 

“No idea,” Sasha says. She studies the door, lips pursed. Pushes her glasses up her nose. “I’m going out there.” 

 _“What?”_ Martin almost shouts just as Jon snaps, _“Absolutely not.”_

“Sasha, you can’t,” Martin insists, pleading. “The floor is _covered_ in worms out there, you’ll never make it.” 

“Someone’s got to warn Tim,” she counters. She hefts the nearest fire extinguisher. “And get everyone else out of here. _And_ hopefully get some help. Jon can’t run, and you don’t know your way around, so…” She reaches for the door handle. “I’ll clear a path through them and make a run for it.” 

Martin pulls his lip between his teeth, looking dubiously between her and the door. Jon sighs. 

“...She does have a point, unfortunately.” His leg throbs traitorously in further support. “Back her up with the co2 when she opens the door. And for god’s sake don’t let any of those things in.” 

Martin nods, looking faint but determined. He grabs an extinguisher of his own, taking up his position. “Ready?” 

Sasha makes an affirmative noise, and on the count of three she yanks the door open, and she and Martin blast back the wriggling onslaught of worms. Once the doorway is cleared, Sasha takes off at a sprint and Martin slams the door shut and falls against it, panting. 

“Okay,” he breathes. He presses his face to the window, peering out. “Okay, she made it. Looks like she made it. Thank god.” He pushes off the door and staggers shakily over to the cot where he sinks down next to Jon. He looks him over, brows drawn down in worry. 

“Are you... I mean, is there anything I can do?” 

Jon looks down at himself, at his disheveled clothes and blood seeping through his trouser leg, and gives a short, dry laugh. “I don’t think there’s much either of us _can_ do, at the moment.” Still, he looks back up at with a Martin a wan smile. “But, thank you. Really, I’m alright.” 

And Martin doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he just gives Jon’s wrist a gentle squeeze and settles back against the wall. 

There’s a lull, and Jon stares unseeing at the space next to him on the thin mattress, occasionally stealing a glance at Martin. There’s still a sickly pallor to his skin, and Jon sees him taking shaky, shallow breaths, as if he’s trying to hold back a tide of panic. And he probably is. Since, well, he’s reliving his worst nightmare all over again. 

Because of Jon. 

And there’s the guilt again. Jon scowls to himself and clenches his jaw. As if he hadn’t already made things difficult enough with his impromptu declaration out there. Now Martin is trapped here, not only about to get eaten alive by worms, but with _him_ to top it all. 

Jon inhales sharply and shifts on the mattress, getting his injured leg in a more comfortable position. He feels Martin looking at him again, radiating concern, stuck having to care about Jon’s well being even now, when he should have been out the door and done.  

“...I’m sorry, Martin.” He realizes there isn’t much an apology can do at this point, but Martin deserves at least that much. 

Martin makes a questioning noise and shuffles around to face him. “For what?” 

Jon doesn’t look up. He barks out a humorless laugh. “All of it? For being- the way I’ve been. For you having to come up here and end up trapped with me in this whole…” He gestures with disgust towards the door, where worms are already obscuring part of the window. 

“Oh.” Martin sighs. “It’s fi- well alright, it’s not _fine, at all,_ but. I don’t blame you? I mean, not for this.” He lays a warm hand on Jon’s forearm. “Besides, as absolutely nightmarish as this is, there’s no way in hell I’d want you stuck in here without me.” 

It should be a comforting sentiment. But coming from someone who was so close to finally walking away before Jon had to open his mouth, it just makes Jon’s stomach twist. He stares down at Martin’s hand on his arm, at his thumb absently stroking back and forth over his skin. Tries and doesn’t entirely succeed in not imagining how different things could have been if he’d just bloody _said it_ at any of the times he’d actually intended to. 

At length, he adds, “...And I’m sorry, again, for- for what I said. In the, er, in my office. Before.” 

Martin’s thumb stills. “Oh,” he says again, an odd note in his voice. 

Jon presses on, determined to get this out before anything else happens. To make him understand. “I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have said it, and I promise you it was unintentional.” 

There’s a beat, and then Martin lets his hand slip from Jon’s arm. He sits back. “Right. Okay. I, I see. Um, thank you for clearing it up.” 

Jon nods, mentally chastising himself for noting how cold his arm feels now. They sit in silence for a long moment, and then Martin pushes himself off the cot and wanders back over to the door. His cry of alarm has Jon finally raising his eyes. 

“Oh, Christ, I hope you guys didn’t need whatever was in those boxes.”

“...Why?” Jon asks warily. 

Martin turns away from the window, disgust and horror plain on his face. “She’s out there. Prentiss, she’s… well, whatever’s coming out of her mouth, you’ll probably want to go ahead and burn them.” 

“...Ah. Nothing that important,” Jon decides. 

Martin casts a final look out the window with a shudder, before carefully seating himself on a stack of boxes. He curls his hands in his lap and scuffs his feet against the floor. Silence falls on them once again. 

Seeing as good a chance as any to continue making amends, Jon does. Eyes fixed firmly on the wall next to him, “Back to what I was saying--”

“Jon.” Martin cuts him off. “Don’t worry, I got it. It’s fine.”

“No, listen, I’m- I’m almost done.” He clears his throat. Reaches for the right words, for the will to get them out. “I promise that once we get out of here, I’ll respect your wishes. I, I won’t do or say anything else that might- make your decision more complicated.” 

He nods to himself, satisfied. That should cover it. It hurts. Having it out in the open, acknowledged and real- Christ, it hurts. But at least he can move forward with a clear conscience. 

“Wait- wait, Jon. What?” 

There’s a high, sharp note in Martin’s voice, Jon looks up to find him staring at him, bewildered. “...I said that once we get out of here-”

Martin cuts him off again with a wave. “No, no I heard you, just- what the _hell_ are you even on about?” 

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Jon huffs, frustrated. Honestly, this is difficult enough without having to spell it out himself, word for word. They both know where this is all headed. 

But then Martin just looks-- stricken. “You want me to leave?” 

“I- Of course not,” Jon snaps. “As I said, I won’t try to stop you if you want to-”

 _“What?”_ Martin is looking at him like he’s lost his mind, and at this rate Jon is starting to feel like maybe he has. Martin gapes at him, incredulity twisting his features. “Where did you even get… I don’t want to leave!” 

Jon blinks. “Oh. Oh, but- you said we needed to talk. That you weren’t- you aren’t doing this anymore. I just assumed-” 

“You just assumed I was- what? Breaking up with you?” 

The word choice brings a rush of heat to Jon’s face. “Well.” He flusters. “Well, I- I wouldn’t exactly call it- that. But. You have to admit your phrasing was misleading,” he grumbles. “And I know I’ve been… difficult, recently.” 

He leans forward on his elbows, grimacing at the pressure on his leg. Ducks his head. “I just assumed it was the final nail in the coffin.” 

“Jon…” 

The exasperated pity in his voice makes Jon want to crawl under the ratty sheets. Then it finally registers: Martin doesn’t want to leave. So... 

“Wait,” he says, scrunching his face. “Then… then what did you want to talk about?” 

“I told you!” And now there’s just the exasperation. “Us.” Martin stands up again, gesturing between the two of them. _“This._ This- whatever the hell we’ve been doing all these months. Whatever we’re doing now.” He starts pacing the small space, harshly dragging a hand through his hair.

“The fact that- that there _is an ‘us’_ to talk about at all!” 

He whirls on Jon, cheeks splotched with color and eyes bright and earnest. “The fact that you said- what you said. And then immediately took it back, yes, but, but you said it. And I refuse to believe you didn’t mean it. Not now.” 

He stands there in the center of the room, then. Fists clenched at his sides, breathing hard, eyes fixed on Jon. Waiting, Jon realizes. Blaring sirens cut abruptly through the silence between them; neither of them so much as flinches. It distantly occurs to him that Sasha must have tripped the fire alarms. Good.

Jon’s heart is pounding against his ribs as Martin’s words sink in. The truth they’ve both kept safe in their chests finally, _finally,_ spilled out in the still air of this shitty room. Unavoidable. A relief.

“I see,” he says at last, just more than a whisper, scarcely audible to even himself over the wailing outside. “I see.” 

And he does.

“Yeah,” Martin agrees, equally quiet. 

They just look at one another as the moment stretches between them, the significance of whatever he does next not lost on Jon in the slightest. 

“You realize…” he pauses, swallows. Wets his lips. “You realize this is a terrible idea.”

Martin groans and stalks away. 

“I’m serious, Martin.” Jon pushes himself to the edge of the cot and grabs onto the railing, dragging himself to his feet with a hiss. “There’s a lot you don’t know. There’s a lot that _I don’t know._ But I know I don’t want you getting caught up in it.” 

At that, Martin actually laughs, half hysterical. “I think I’d call this being pretty well caught up in it, to be honest.” 

“That’s not what I mean.” Jon takes a limping step forward, bracing himself on the metal shelving. “I didn’t tell you, but the worms have been in the institute for months, I wasn’t entirely transparent-” 

“Great!” Martin starts to lean his forehead against the window, then seems to remember what’s on the other side and staggers back. “Great,” he repeats. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Still nothing new.” 

Jon winces, but presses on. “...And, and there’s something… _wrong_ about this place, Martin. It’s not just the worms, Jane Prentiss. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s something. The statements, when I’m recording, it’s- it’s like something’s _listening-”_ He’s rambling, he knows it, and sounding more than a little unhinged. But he has to let Martin know. 

Has to let him know exactly what he’s facing if they do this. Really do it. In part to give him a fair chance to back out while he still can, and in greater part to spare Jon the pain of him finding out later and deciding it’s too much. 

He doesn’t even realize how he’d been anxiously cracking his knuckles the whole while until Martin steps forward and stops him, covering his hands with his own. 

“So what, Jon?” Martin asks. Jon frowns and makes an affronted sound, and Martin gives a tiny shake of his head. 

“That didn’t come out right. I mean, yeah okay, that all sounds… god, really bad, but I’ve known something was weird about this place since the first day I visited? At the time I just thought Elias was creeping me out, but, you know.” 

He pulls one of Jon’s hands free and laces their fingers together. “I don’t care about any of that. Not for me, I mean. Not for- us. I cannot emphasize enough how little I care.” 

Jon gives a little jerk of his hand and opens his mouth to argue, but Martin holds on.

“No, I’m not finished. I’m not stupid, Jon. And I’m not a child. And yeah, I may not know exactly what I’m getting into. But neither do you, you just said as much! None of us does, ever, spooky supernatural workplaces or not.” He squeezes Jon’s hand, and Jon raises his eyes from where he’d dropped them to the floor. 

“I’m already in this,” Martin tells him firmly. “Not just here, today, but with you. And, and as long as you want me here, I’m not going anywhere. I don’t-- _care.”_

The torrent of words hits Jon square in the chest, and their meaning knocks the air from his lungs. He glances down to where his and Martin’s hands are still entwined, Martin clutching him so tightly their knuckles have gone white. Back up to Martin’s face; Martin’s eyes, intent and serious, Martin’s mouth set in a stubborn line. Martin, flushed and scared and determined and _here._

It’s stupid, really, how any warmth could possibly find root in his chest in such a dire situation, trapped in a tiny room and beseiged by a monster with fire alarms blaring through the walls. 

And yet, it does; branching out light and giddy and softening the lines of his face and tightening his fingers in Martin’s, in answer. 

Martin must see it, must somehow see what Jon hasn’t yet given words, because his face softens, too, and his mouth curves into a smile - tentative, quavering. 

But there, despite everything. Same as the man himself. 

Something loud and heavy slams into the wall from the other side, jostling the boxes on the shelves and sending Jon and Martin staggering apart with respective shouts. Jon sucks in a breath at the flaring pain in his leg and catches himself on the cot. Martin looks at him with wide, frightened eyes. 

Asks, too calmly, “What was that?” 

Another slam, and Jon flinches hard and swears under his breath. “I- I don’t-”

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Martin is rooted in place, eyes frozen on Jon. “It’s her. She’s- she’s found a way in. Oh god. Oh god.” 

The hammering is more insistent now, rattling the walls in time with the pounding of Jon’s pulse in his temples. He forces himself upright again and limps back towards Martin. The wall visibly shakes and a box of files crashes to the floor. 

“Martin-” 

“Shit. _Shit._ This is it, Jon.” He breathes out a sound that’s half a laugh, half a sob. “This is really it.” 

 _“Martin!”_ Jon reaches him and fists a hand in the front of his shirt, and Martin’s hand comes up immediately to cover it. If this really is it- 

“I didn’t actually take it back, you know.” 

Martin blinks at him, starts to speak, flinches at a particularly loud slam. “What?” 

“What I said. I- I said I was sorry. That I shouldn’t have said it.” He tries and fails to force himself to breathe around the rising urgency. “But I never took it back.” 

“Jon...” 

“Martin, I-”

_“I love you, too.”_

It’s desperate and tearful and pierces straight through Jon’s heart. Feeling surges up in him with a strength that could match the force rocking the wall next to them. And even now, when it matters most, he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Kiss me,” he blurts out, scarcely realizing it until he does, and then he says it again. “I think you should probably kiss me. Before-” 

Martin breathes in sharply, his fingers curling reflexively against Jon’s. “Jon. What… are you sure?”

Jon rolls his eyes. Tersely, “If everything we just said wasn’t enough-”

“I know, I know, just-” Martin sniffs and lets out a breathless huff. “I _want to, god,_ but- if we do get out of here somehow and it was just a heat of the moment th-” 

 _For someone who’d just snapped on him about dancing around-_ Jon cuts him off by surging forward, dragging Martin down to meet him. 

It’s- more of a collision than a kiss, really; their teeth clacking together and his glasses knocked askew and Martin making a high, startled - possibly pained - sound against his mouth. 

And then Martin’s fingers are clamped on his shoulders, gently but firmly pushing him back. Jon’s heart sinks and his face heats with shame - and perhaps rejection and embarrassment shouldn’t be the highest on his list of concerns right now, with death possible seconds away, but, well. Not exactly how he wanted to go out. 

He averts his eyes, starts to fumble his way through an apology. 

But the words die on his tongue when Martin softly cups his face, thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones. He tilts Jon’s face up, and the helpless, tender affection Jon finds in his eyes threatens to undo him.

“Let’s do this right, then?” Martin explains, achingly soft. 

He slides a hand back through Jon’s hair, the other slipping down to cup his jaw. He flicks his gaze over Jon’s face for just a moment longer, as if taking it all in one last time, and then dips his head to press their lips together sweetly. 

Jon’s heart skips and his eyes flutter closed and he stills and sighs against Martin’s mouth, finally bringing his arms up to loop around Martin’s shoulders as he leans into the kiss.

Martin makes a soft, desperate sound in his throat, and Jon tightens his hold. The hand tangled in his hair moves down to curl around the back of his neck, drawing him closer. Their mouths slot together perfectly; every slide of their lips filled with every word they haven’t got a chance to say yet.

Jon has heard all the expressions; all the waxing poetic about the earth trembling and time stopping and fireworks going off at that first brush of lips. And while he’s had his share of meaningful kisses, and certainly doesn’t discount the feelings they elicited, he’s always told himself the romanticism was a bit excessive. 

But now, with sirens blaring and the room shattering around them, with Martin - who he loves, who he _loves, who loves him -_ pressed into his arms and holding him close; one final moment, almost too late, suspended in time--

Well.

He has to admit that maybe he’s something of a romantic, after all. 

A spray of plaster and broken tile litters the floor at their feet as the wall caves in. Jon tenses, feels Martin tense against him, and the two of them pull each other closer; hearts pounding together, rapid breath ghosting over lips, braced for the inevitable but not letting go. 

“Ha! I fucking _knew it!”_

In place of the tide of worms they’d expected, Tim’s triumphant - if ragged - voice breaks over them.

They both yelp and startle back. Jon’s injured leg gives way and he starts to fall, but Martin lunges forward and catches him, hauling him back up against him and into his arms. 

 _“Tim?”_ Martin shouts, incredulous. 

Jon twists around and sure enough, standing where a good chunk of the wall used to be, is Tim Stoker. 

Panting, grimy with sweat and plaster dust, looking more than a little dazed, and grinning broadly. He brandishes a fire extinguisher, gesturing with it at the two of them. 

“Knew it!” he repeats. “And about damn time. Me and Sasha figured it would take something big for you to finally get your shit together.” He sways on his feet. Sends a pointed look towards the worm-covered door. “Gotta hand it to you.” 

Jon’s face is burning, and Martin doesn’t look to be faring any better, but they quite fortunately don’t have time for that right now. He extracts himself from Martin’s embrace. 

“Tim. How did you get here? And- Christ, are you alright?” 

“Did Sasha find you?” Martin asks. 

Tim waves them off. “Fine, fine, bit light headed. Gas, you know. Ran into Sasha on her way to get Elias. And I-” He points at himself, looking pleased. “Ran down here to save your asses. Now come on, let’s go. Into the tunnels.” He turns and heads back through the wall. 

“Hurry!” 

Jon looks at Martin, who is looking at him. He notices Martin’s cheeks are still rather pink, his lips still shiny from- well. Their kiss. 

Because that happened. 

He offers Martin a wry smile and holds out his hand. “Shall we?” 

Martin raises his eyebrows and lets out a breathless little laugh. He takes his hand.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s get out of here.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That happened, indeed. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed this LONG AWAITED CHAPTER, because god I know I've been waiting to get this one out since before I really started properly writing the fic. Thank you so much for reading and making it this far!! As always, I am [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) on tumblr :)


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, special thanks to the lovely [somuchbetterthanthat](https://somuchbetterthanthat.tumblr.com/) for helping my brain make ideas happen. Some of them happen in this chapter, some will happen in the next. But god, thank you.

_I kissed Jon._

_...Jon kissed_ me. 

 _Jon kissed me_ first _and I kissed him and we’re not going to die._

_...Hopefully._

_We’re hopefully not going to die and we kissed and he_ loves _me._

_Oh my god._

And thus Martin’s thoughts continue on a running loop as he and Jon hurry hand in hand behind Tim and into the tunnels. 

Well, along with a healthy mix of _I hope Sasha is alright_ and _shit, is that a worm- no, okay, thank god_ and _I hope this doesn’t have to count as our anniversary because, really--_

"Do you even know where you're going?" Jon's strained voice breaks into his thoughts. He's clutching Martin's hand painfully tight, limping alongside the best he can.

Tim tosses them a quick look over his shoulder and shrugs. 

"More or less," he says, which Martin doesn't find all that reassuring. "It's a maze down here, guys. At first I just thought it was the gas getting to me, making it all trippy, you know?" He stops them at an intersection, faltering just a moment before decisively turning down the left branch.

...And then staggering violently back with a shout of "Worms!" and a choking cloud from his extinguisher. Martin stuffs down a surge of panic and he and Jon release one another's hands to rush in and help.

"Jesus, they're fast," Martin hisses, frantically stomping at a cluster that leapt past Tim and landed within inches of his feet.

"Yeah," Tim pants once they’re clear again, twisting around, checking himself over. "Bit of a trade off; no big tidal waves of the bastards, but the ones you do run into down here can _move."_

"Well. I'll take these over the, er, tidal waves, I think." Jon props himself against the wall of the tunnel with a pinched expression, favoring his leg. 

Tim jogs on ahead, extinguisher at the ready, to make sure there’s nothing else waiting for them.

"Are you alright?" Martin asks Jon, concerned. He moves to stand next to him, hands hovering uncertainly. 

Jon takes a slow breath through his nose and pushes himself off the wall. "Fine. Not exactly in the best shape for- _combat,_ at the moment.” His tone is dry, but he gives Martin a reassuring hint of a smile. "But I'll be fine."

Martin chews his lip, watching Tim turn and head back towards them. Casts another worried glance at Jon. Ventures, "Um, if you need, I could maybe carry-"

“Martin, please do not finish that sentence.” 

“I mean, I wouldn’t be able to fight worms, but maybe for a short dist-”

_“Martin.”_

"Right, right, just. Just checking. Right."

At a thumbs up from Tim, he turns to Jon and holds out his hand. "Well… shall we?" he asks, echoing Jon's words from earlier. 

Jon doesn’t say anything, still looking a bit discomposed from Martin’s helpful proposal, but he’s clearly fighting back a smile when he laces their hands together. Even now, Martin’s heart flutters at the warmth of Jon’s palm in his, and he chides himself for the fleeting thought that maybe today isn't such a nightmare after all.

And then doesn’t have to, because a second wave of worms greets them just two branches later. 

“Tim--” Martin coughs into his sleeve, “-are you _sure_ this is the right way?” He hopes Tim is only too busy fighting worms to respond, because the answering silence is not remotely reassuring.

“I can’t believe-” he directs this at Jon, “-you’ve been coming here every day for _months,_ knowing these things were here.” 

“Well, we didn’t know it was this bad, specifically,” Jon counters. 

 _“Not_ the point, Jon.” 

“...Right.” 

The remaining worms split off, two groups edging past the blast of co2 and managing to get them surrounded. 

“Guys?” Tim shouts, sending them a panicked look - hardly visible through the clouds of white gas. 

Martin and Jon whirl around til they’re back to back, each defending their respective sides.

“Got it!” Martin calls back. 

“It’s not too late to back out,” Jon says over his shoulder. 

A rather enterprising worm launches itself at Martin’s face, and he slaps it down with a choked yelp at the last second and sprays it with particular malice. “You know, Jon, I think this might be the definition of ‘too late’.” 

“...Well, yes. But- that’s not- _shit -”_ Martin hears him viciously stomping. “That’s not what I meant.” 

The worms once again defeated - for now - Martin pulls his shirt collar up over his nose and loops his arm through Jon’s as they race after Tim. He gives him a sidelong glance and a pointed sigh as they go. “Okay. What we’re _not_ going to do is spend our whole relationship with you trying to convince me to leave.” 

Jon opens his mouth in argument - _of course he does,_ Martin thinks - but whatever he’d been going to say devolves into coughs. Martin takes the opportunity to press on.

“No! I mean it! ...I mean, I _am_ going to yell at you later for not telling me _the worms were literally in your workplace.”_ Ahead of them, Tim slows down as they approach another bend, holding up his hand. Martin and Jon slow as well. Lowering his voice and also changing tack, “But... but I’m not perfect either, am I?” 

This gets a dismissive eye roll from Jon, and Martin nudges his side. “Don’t give me that. Not when you whine all the time about how pushy I am.” Tim gives them the go ahead to follow him, and the three of them pick up the pace again, hurrying around the bend. 

“That’s-” Jon winces, leaning heavily against Martin. Martin slides his arm around his back for better support as they go. “-hardly comparable. You’re stuck down here right now because of a series of my glaring character flaws-” 

“I have a huge problem with jealousy,” Martin cuts in conversationally. “Remember how weird I acted about Todd?” 

Jon tilts his head, brow furrowed. “Who’s Todd?” 

Martin stops them both short and turns on Jon with an incredulous look. “Seriously? Todd? Works in artifact… something, storage, I think? I used to always see him when I’d come by for…” He trails off as Jon scrunches his face in confusion. “...Right. That’s why I stopped being jealous of him.” 

 _“Guys,”_ Tim prompts. 

Martin ushers Jon forward again. 

“Sometimes I, uh… I sneak out and come back to the institute. After you’re asleep,” Jon admits stubbornly.

“Well, sometimes I- wait, you _what?”_  

 _“Worms!”_ Tim warns again. 

Martin lets out a groan and readies his extinguisher. _“Fuck’s sake-”_

Tim and Martin hold off the bulk of them, while Jon hangs back to take out any that slip past their defense. 

“I always nag you about- _watch out! -_ leaving crumbs in the sink--” Martin continues between sprays. “I do that clicky thing with my pen.” 

Jon huffs as he comes up to join him, whether from irritation or exertion or pain, he can’t tell. “You’ve called me out multiple times on my tendency to-” 

“Christ’s sake, we get it,” Tim groans. He slumps heavily against the wall, feebly waving a hand at the two of them. “You guys are perfect for each other. I now pronounce you married, you may kiss, don’t throw the bouquet because it’s probably worms.”

This has a giddy smile tugging at Martin’s lips, too pleased to even be as embarrassed as he should. Next to him, Jon makes an indignant sound but doesn’t present any further argument. Martin notices a tinge of color rising to his cheeks and his smile only grows. He reaches down to squeeze Jon’s hand. 

Tim snorts and shakes his head. “That’s better, now come on. As vindicated as I’m feeling today, maybe save the rest for when we get out of here.” 

* * *

They’ve been walking for quite some time now, and all attempts at conversation have died; replaced by bone-deep weariness and some other symptoms that Martin suspects might be from the lack of breathable oxygen down here. 

Jon is breathing harshly next to him and leaning heavily into his side, and Martin isn’t sure which of their sweat is currently soaking his shirt. Tim has fallen back to shuffle along beside them. Martin’s arm is numb from holding Jon up and a blister sends pain stabbing through his heel at every step. 

There’s been a distinct lack of worms for a while now, though, so that’s a relief. There’s also been a distinct presence of crisp packets, and Martin can’t decide how he feels about that. On one hand, if people have been coming down here - _god knows why_ \- and littering, then maybe they’re not too far from an exit. On the other… 

“...Hey, Tim?” he asks at length, his voice hoarse and dry. “Um, did it take this long when you came through before..?” 

Tim is quiet for a disconcertingly long time. “...I’m not sure,” he says slowly, pausing and examining their current surroundings. “I don’t think it felt this long. But then again, I wasn’t half dead the first time around.” 

Martin bites his lip, frowning. That’s what he was afraid of, and if he wasn’t so bloody _exhausted,_ he might be panicking a little right now. He’s just about to reply when Jon cries out sharply, shrugging out from under his arm and staggering back. Tim shouts and startles and Martin flinches hard, hands tightening around his extinguisher. 

“What? What’s wrong?” He looks around wildly, expecting to see their death rolling towards them in the form of an impenetrable wall of worms. 

“Ah… that....” Jon sounds faint, staring ahead of them down the tunnel they’ve just turned down, face contorted in disgust and alarm. 

Following his gaze with mounting dread, suddenly Martin understands. His pulse stutters in his throat. “What the _hell-”_

“Oh thank _god,”_ Tim gushes at the same time. Martin makes an aborted move to stop him as he stumbles towards the filthy, rancid, _massive_ ring of dead worms looming up on the wall ahead. 

“Um.” Martin blinks.“Tim?” 

Tim whirls back towards them, arms spread wide and the first smile they’ve seen on him down here spread broadly across his face. “It’s my worm portal!” 

Martin blinks harder. _“Um.”_ He casts Jon a worried glance.

Jon takes a few hesitant steps forward. “Tim. Are you feeling-”

“Well, not _mine,”_ Tim amends, seemingly heedless. He gives the disgusting mass a frankly adoring look and _laughs._ “I passed this on the way to get you. We’re going the right way.” 

Sure enough, after not much longer - sped up considerably by the renewed energy they’ve all seemed to find - the trio finds themselves standing under a trapdoor. Tim claps his hands together loudly and points it out.

“Don’t know where this leads, but as long as it’s out of here, I’m down.” He starts towards it, then sobers a bit. Wipes a hand across his brow and lets out a breath. “If it’s back in the archives, though…” 

Jon seems to catch his meaning, and gives the trapdoor a dubious look. “...Prentiss could be waiting for us. Right.” 

“I’m starting to think I’d welcome her with open arms, at this point,” Tim grumbles. “Ready?” 

“Wait,” Martin cuts in. He eyes the trapdoor dubiously for entirely different reasons. “Jon, do you even know if you can get up there?” 

“Of course I can get up there,” Jon scoffs, sounding deeply affronted. 

Martin raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “You can barely even stand anymore. Look, just let me give you a boost-” 

_“I do not need ‘a boost’.”_

“In the meantime, I’m opening the door,” Tim decides, reaching for it. 

“Wait!” Martin grabs his arm. “What if she _is_ waiting for us?” 

“You just offered to- _boost_ me up there.” Jon sounds even more affronted. 

Martin rolls his eyes. “I meant after we know it’s safe, of course.” 

Tim jerks his arm free. “Alright, look, I’ll open it just a crack-” 

The rest of their argument comes to an abrupt end as unearthly screech rings out above them, jarring their ears and drowning out their cries and shaking the walls around them. The three of them stumble violently back from the trapdoor, hands pressed tight over their ears, cowering and looking at one another wildly. Martin pulls one of his hands down to put an arm protectively around Jon. _This is it,_ he thinks. _This is it, we’re going to die, we’re going to die down here in these damned tunnels and the last thing I said to Jon was something stupid--_

Jon presses close to his side, and Martin feels one of his arms slide across his back. He looks down to see his other hand reach out to grasp Tim’s sleeve. Tim looks surprised, blinks, then claps a hand on Jon’s shoulder. 

 _At least we get this,_ the next thought comes, much kinder. _At least I got to have this._

And so they wait. 

And wait. 

The cry cuts off as abruptly as it had begun, and the silence that falls on them is deafening in its absence. 

They say nothing else, but after another wait, Tim starts forward, pausing with a look back. Jon takes a shaky breath and nods, and Martin slowly straightens up. 

Tim reaches up and opens the trapdoor. 

* * *

“Jon, I _will_ barricade you in your bedroom.” Martin puts on his most assertive I Can and I Will Because I Love You, So Don’t Test Me, voice and squares his shoulders, arms crossed over his chest. Jon freezes mid-step halfway across the living room. 

Martin takes the opportunity to descend on him with a sigh and a flurry of fussing. “Look at you, you’ve got your leg bleeding again. You- you’re not even _dressed,_ Jesus.” He puts a hand firmly on Jon’s shoulder and guides him to turn back. Jon shrugs him off with an irritable huff. 

“ _Fine,”_ he snaps. “I still don’t see how sitting at my desk is any more strenuous than-” 

“Jon.” 

“...Fine.” Making a dignified show of smoothing out another of what definitely used to be Martin’s t-shirts, Jon pulls away and limps back towards his bedroom. Martin watches him go, his disapproving expression wavering beneath the force of the fond smile trying to form in its place. 

He shakes his head and goes to sink down on the couch. Just to rest for a moment. To breathe. Breathing is nice. 

They’ve only been back at the flat for about sixteen hours, having escaped the tunnels just after the archives had been flooded with co2, they’d found out, effectively killing Jane Prentiss and all of the worms. Sasha had met them as they’d stumbled faint and gasping out of the stairwell, apparently on her way to go look for them. 

Her arm was bandaged, Martin had noticed, and her glasses were bent and smudged with what looked uncomfortably like squished worm, but other than the inevitable therapy bill, she’d assured them she was fine as she hugged them each in turn and ushered them out to the waiting paramedics.

After he’d been treated and let go from the hospital, Martin had then spent the next several hours beside himself with anxiety and imagining every worst case scenario possible while waiting for Jon to be released from quarantine. 

And _then_ he’d had to threaten him with Sasha - who had left to help Tim get home but promised ahead of time to threaten him with Elias - to get him to _put the bloody tape recorder away also why do you even still have that--_ and go _home._

And so here they are. And Martin is _tired._

But still too restless with nerves and worry to properly rest, so instead he gets up to go make some tea. Half for the calming ritual of it, half for calming his workaholic boyfriend. He flushes and his skin prickles pleasantly as he turns the word over in his mind. His actual, official boyfriend, Jon. 

 _That_ happened. 

Jesus. 

Despite everything else, that thought hasn’t yet failed to bring an impossibly bright smile to Martin’s face, or a breathless laugh bubbling in his throat every time it crosses his mind. And it has. It has so, so many times. He’s practically reliving _that kiss_ on a steady repeating loop. 

His face flushes hotter and he bounces on his feet as he fills the kettle and takes Jon’s favorite tea down out of the cupboard.

They haven’t talked about it, yet. Well, they’d talked about it plenty, yeah, but not since they got out. Not since things were - relatively - calm and no longer a heat-of-the-moment hurry-before-we-die situation. He frowns a little, setting the kettle in place and going to sink down at the table. 

It’s- well, it’s understandable, right? They haven’t exactly had time or the energy for any kind of talk. Hell, they can barely manage it under ideal circumstances. But… but an acknowledgement at least would be- well. 

It’s awkward, is all. The longer they go without saying anything, the more awkward it’s going to get. Every look and touch and old, familiar gesture seems weighted with so much more meaning, and it’s silly. It’s silly, because they were practically dating before, and nothing has changed except actually coming out and _saying it._ If anything, that should make it less awkward. 

And yet. 

And yet here they are, officially together and back safe from a nightmarish near-death experience and Martin can’t even bring himself to hold the man’s hand. He twists his fingers in the hem of his shirt and lets out a long sigh. 

A noise startles him out of his thoughts, and he looks up to see Jon standing at the edge of the table, clutching the back of the nearest chair with a pinched expression. 

He sits up. “Jon, _seriously-”_

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jon grumbles, petulant. He makes his slow way around the little table and takes the chair nearest Martin. “After everything, I just- I suppose I’d like the company.” After a beat, he adds, gaze flicking to the table, “...Your company.” 

“Oh.” The pleased warmth in Martin’s chest battles against the guilt pricking at his conscience. “Sorry, I was- I wanted to let you rest. I was going to bring you tea, though. When it’s, um, when it’s ready.” 

Gratitude settles at the edges of Jon’s eyes, and he hums and leans forward with his chin in his hands. 

He looks- well, awful, yeah. But beautiful. God, he’s beautiful. To hell with the awkwardness. At least, that's what Martin tells himself as he sits up in his seat and slides one of his hands across the table towards Jon’s. 

“Move in with me,” Jon says, without looking up. Martin chokes and jerks his hand back. 

“Pardon?” 

Jon frowns across the table. “I want you to move in with me,” he repeats, slow and measured. Soft. 

A glance back at the stove tells Martin the tea is ready, and he stands up shakily to fetch it. Ridiculous, really, how something like this can have his mouth going dry even now. He tries to calm his pulse as he sets out the mugs, making sure to get the yellow one for Jon, and pours the tea. 

“Um, I mean.” He lets out a nervous half laugh. “I’m kind of already…?” 

“You know what I mean.” And Martin can _hear_ the eye-roll in Jon’s voice. “Unpack the rest of your things. Put your- hideous figurines on my shelves. Get rid of that godawful air mattress-” 

“Oh, I see what this is really about,” Martin can help but tease. He pours plenty of milk in Jon’s tea and adds a spoonful of sugar. A spoon and a half of honey in his own. 

“I’m serious.” And as he turns, Jon does fix him with an earnest, intent look, those eyes trained on him never failing to make his heart skip. Then, just as quickly as it came, Jon’s expression falters. He drops his eyes back to the table, hands curling uncertainly. “That is- that is if that’s not, ah, moving too fast.” He clears his throat and accepts the tea as Martin slides it across to him. His finger taps against the side of the mug. 

Martin giggles nervously. “I mean, I don’t think we can judge our relationship by normal standards, Jon.” He settles down in his seat, hands curling around his own mug.

Jon lets out a quiet huff of a laugh into his mug; a soft, comfortable sound that Martin still can’t believe he gets to hear for- well, hopefully forever. Every day, if he can help it. Yeah. Alright, then. _Of course._ Why not make one more thing official, while they’re at it? 

When Jon raises his eyes again, they’re still hesitant, but- hopeful. “So…” he begins. “Is that a…?” 

Martin grins at him, helplessly, unbelievably fond. “Yeah, Jon. God, yeah, I’ll… I’ll unpack my things tomorrow.” He looks down at his mug and shakes his head.

He hears Jon make a questioning noise. "What is it?"

“Oh.” Martin shrugs, rubs at the back of his neck sheepishly. “I, um, I’ve been feeling a bit awkward since we got back? I mean, I know it hasn’t been long, and it’s silly, but-” He laughs, more with relief than mirth. “I guess I didn’t know how to act around you, now that we’re really… you know. I mean considering that we, well, the way we went about it-”

“You mean while seconds from being eaten alive by worms?” Jon supplies with a wry look. 

“Yeah, yeah that’ll be it.” He lets his head fall forward onto his arms with a low groan. “Before you- _did that,_ I was just trying to work up the nerve to hold your hand again,” he admits. 

There’s a beat, and then he starts when a warm hand closes around his. Oh, that’s just _unfair._ He peeks up at Jon, finding him staring into his tea with an adorably determined expression. 

“When did you get so bold, anyway?” Martin whines. 

Jon furrows his brow, as if in thought. He tilts his head. “Somewhere between the worms and the painkillers, I’d imagine,” and he says it in that serious, deadpan way that Martin has come to recognize as him joking, and that’s it. That’s _it._

Martin sits up and slips his hand from beneath Jon’s, and before Jon can say anything, he uses it to reach out to turn his face towards him and kiss him firmly on the mouth. Jon tenses and makes a soft, surprised sound against his lips, and Martin draws back, bringing his hand back down to rest on Jon’s. Self conscious as _hell,_ but still rather pleased with himself. He raises his eyebrows, waiting.

“Oh,” Jon says simply. The smile blooming on his face, however, says all that his words are lacking; broad and full and - well, tired, but - _happy._ Martin is reminded suddenly of that picture in Georgie’s photo album. Reminded of how he’d longed to be able to make Jon smile like that. 

Yet another laugh, one of quiet elation, now, slips from his throat and he marvels at life and the ridiculous turns it takes. At the ridiculous, beautiful man next to him.

At _that smile,_ directed at _him._

He realizes his cheeks are hurting from how hard he’s smiling, himself. This doesn’t quite even the score, he thinks, but they’ll get there. He’s sure he’s got plenty more boldness in him. But for now--

Reluctantly, he takes his hand away and stands up. “Come on, you need to get back to bed,” he says. “You look awful.” 

Jon snorts. “Ever the romantic,” he drawls, but he drains his mug and stiffly rises from his own seat. Martin holds out his arm, thankful when Jon takes it and leans on him without a fuss. 

“Someone’s got to be the practical one between the two of us,” he defends himself. 

“I’m practical,” Jon insists. 

Martin hums, noncommittal. They bicker lightly all the way down the hall, fond and familiar, until Martin helps Jon into bed. Makes sure he has water and painkillers within reach. _Makes sure there’s no tape recorder hidden beneath his pillow. Again._

Turns to leave, only to have Jon reach out and grab his wrist, giving him a rather flat look and a pointed “Really?” 

Hesitates, in spite of everything, because it still feels fresh and new and fragile. Turns out the light and climbs into the other side of the bed, reaches across to Jon. Gently tugs him close to his chest. Holds his breath as Jon settles against him with a weary but contented sigh. 

 _I love him,_ he thinks, dropping a soft kiss to Jon’s hair. 

 _I love him,_ like a silent prayer, as he lets his eyes fall shut not long after. As his heart beats with it; a steady, unwavering rhythm, as they both drift off to sleep, alive and safe and together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Worm Time is officially at an end. We made it, lads. 
> 
> Also, just an announcement that due to Life Things, chapter 25 will most likely be a week late. That is, coming out on the 14th as opposed to the 7th. Subject to change, buuut just a head's up! Thank you in advance for your patience, and for everyone who has already been so lovely about insisting (yelling) that I take my time and not overwork myself. 
> 
> Again and always, thank you SO MUCH for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Next chapter we'll get to hear from everyone else, so no worries about them! And again as always, find me at [protectmartinblackwood](https://protectmartinblackwood.tumblr.com/) if you like! :)


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winding down, guys. No real plot to this chapter; just ~7k words of everyone being soft and caring about each other.

“Where is he? Where _is he-”_ Georgie pushes her way in before Martin even fully gets the door open. He staggers back with a yelp. 

“...Everything alright?” 

The look she gives him is withering as she fishes her phone out of her pocket and holds it up for him. On the screen is a text from Jon:

_“Sorry I didn’t come over; worm attack.”_

Martin winces. “Right. He’s in the bedroom.” 

Georgie doesn’t waste any time turning on her heel and striding towards the hall. Martin hurries after her. 

Jon is sat on the bed with his laptop and looks up at the intrusion, surprise flitting across his face. “Oh. Georgie-” He’s abruptly cut off as she charges at him and throws her arms around him in a crushing embrace. 

“Jonathan Sims, _you are so stupid.”_

Before he can reply, she’s stepping back again, arms crossed firmly over her chest. “Really, Jon? You _really_ thought that was good enough? You get attacked by killer worms and I find out two days later through a half-assed text? _Really?”_

“To be fair,” Martin cuts in tentatively from the doorway, “he has been on a lot of pain killers…”

Georgie whirls on him with a cool expression. “And what’s your excuse?” 

“He told me he’d tell you!”

“You of all people know what that means, coming from him.” 

“Hey-” Jon straightens up at that. 

“Nope,” Georgie says, jabbing a finger at him. “Don’t start.” She takes a deep breath and lowers her arms. “Now, are you _okay?_ Is everyone okay?” 

“...Fine, we’re fine, Georgie.” Jon sets his laptop aside and hisses under his breath as he twists to properly face her. “A few worms got me in the leg, and Martin, Tim, and I inhaled a bit too much co2, but-” he sighs. “We’re fine.” 

Georgie’s shoulders relax and she climbs onto the bed next to him. “Good.” She shoves at him, just once - “Don’t _do that_ to me again.” - and leans her head on his shoulder. She fixes Martin with a worried look. “Martin, are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Oh.” Martin wanders over and perches on the edge of the bed on the other side of Jon. “Yeah, yeah I’m good. Glad to be alive,” he laughs awkwardly. 

Jon leans into his shoulder ever so slightly, even as he answers another question of Georgie’s, seemingly unaware. Martin knows better, and he smiles and squeezes Jon’s hand where it rests between them. 

“So, what do you mean by ‘a few worms’?” Georgie is asking, dubiously. 

Jon seems to falter on an answer for a second, then pulls up the leg of his pajamas and unwinds the bandage. Martin’s hand shoots out automatically to stop him. 

“Jon-” 

Georgie grimaces, then looks up and gives Jon another light shove. “Don’t _do that again.”_

“I’ll try my best,” Jon says dryly, wrapping his leg back.

They bicker back and forth until the conversation moves on, and Martin is content to listen, mostly; amused and just happy to see Jon feeling better. Still, he keeps an eye on him, watching for any signs that he’s getting tired or his pain is getting worse. He wouldn’t kick Georgie out, outright, but he’s not above making a pointed suggestion if he thinks Jon is overdoing it. Knowing Georgie would be fully on his side gives him some peace of mind. 

His thoughts - and watchfulness - are interrupted by another knock at the door. 

Jon frowns. “What the hell…” 

Georgie tilts her head. “Tim or Sasha, maybe? Do they even know where you live?” 

“No one knows where I live. Or- at least I thought not.” 

The knock comes again, polite but insistent, and Martin slips off the bed. “Guess I’ll go find out.” He hurries into the living room, muttering under his breath - _I’m coming, hold on, Jesus -_ and opens the door. And very nearly slams it shut again on impulse when he sees - of all people - Elias standing there. 

“Oh- Christ,” Martin flinches back. “What are _you_ doing here?” 

Elias raises his eyebrows, looking mildly taken aback, and holds up an elaborate gift basket. 

Martin bites his tongue. “Sorry, that was rude, long couple days, sorry.” He doesn’t mean it, but he holds out his hand for the gift basket nonetheless. “I’ll just take that to Jon..?” 

“Of course,” Elias says graciously, “I understand.” He hands over his offering, and light glints off the eye-shaped cufflink at his wrist. Something about it sends a shiver down Martin’s spine. “It’s for the two of you, actually,” Elias is saying, “A meager attempt at an apology. I’m mortified that anyone - employees or… _guests -_ would experience such trauma at the institute under my watch.” 

 _More like an attempt at avoiding a lawsuit,_ Martin thinks sardonically. As he turns away from Elias to set the basket aside, he could swear he sees something like amusement flicker across his face. It elicits another shiver. 

“Right,” he says with forced brightness. “Well, thank you for your consideration. Um, I’m sure you have plenty more of _those_ to deliver, in that case, so I’ll just…” He starts to ease the door shut, only to find a foot wedged conveniently in the way. He grits his teeth. 

Elias smiles. “Actually, you two were my last stop. I’d like to speak with Jon, myself, if he’s around?” 

Martin can’t help but bristle at that; protective. Elias gives him the creeps anyway, and now, after what just happened and knowing that there’s something- _wrong_ with the institute- 

“He’s resting,” he says as lightly as possible, belied by his hand still firmly curled around the edge of the door and sending a clear message.

“That, I find hard to believe,” Elias counters with a knowing smirk that’s probably intended to be conspiratorial. Like everything else Elias does, it grates on Martin’s nerves. “I won’t disturb either of you any longer, then. If you could tell him I dropped by-” 

Oh, thank god. “Yeah! Sure, great, of course-” 

_“Elias?”_

Martin swallows back a groan of frustration at Jon’s incredulous voice, and he turns around to see him limping into the living room, followed closely by Georgie. Her gaze flicks dubiously to Elias, to Martin, back to Jon. 

“Elias?” she echoes, equally incredulous with a touch of disdain that buoys Martin’s spirits. “This is _him?”_

“I see my reputation precedes me,” Elias says, all polite amusement. 

Jon’s eyes widen and he gives Georgie a sharp look. “Not- not in a bad way, I promise.” He makes his way to the doorway, Martin resists the impulse to step in front of him. Jon is rumpled and cozy and small in his faded pajamas, still pale with pain and injury, and something about Elias getting to see him that way makes Martin feel a bit sick. Still, he at least keeps his hand solidly on the door. 

Georgie steps up behind Jon, and a glance tells Martin that she’s got a hand curled around his arm, whether in physical support or her own sense of protectiveness, he can’t tell. Elias seems to notice, too, and Martin likes to think that something in his expression wavers. 

Rather than acknowledge it, of course, Elias simply says, “Good to know.” He gestures at the gift basket that Martin had placed on a little shelf above the key hooks. “I was just telling Martin that I’d wanted to bring the two of you a gesture of my regret for what happened at the institute.” 

“And I,” Martin adds, pointedly, “was just telling Elias that you were resting.” 

Elias fixes his eyes on him, unreadable. “You were, indeed.” Back to Jon, with that placid smile back in place: “Which you should be. But while I’ve got you here, how are you doing, Jon?” 

“I’ve been better,” Jon laughs, or attempts to, sounding a bit pained. Martin shoots him a worried glance. “But, ah, I’m alright. Thank you. Er, do you- want to come in, or..?” Martin’s worried glance turns immediately sharp and reproving. 

Thankfully, Elias is already shaking his head. “No, thank you. I’ve taken up enough of your time, and besides, I see you have company.” He nods at Georgie. Martin is pleased to see she doesn’t acknowledge it. “Take care of yourself, and I don’t expect to see you back at work any earlier than a week. Though I’m sure Martin will see to that.” 

“I _will,”_ Martin says tightly, with a smile that feels just a touch more like baring his teeth. 

Jon’s lips thin into a tight line, at that, but he doesn’t argue. “Right, well. Thank you for the, uh…” he waves a hand at the gift basket.

“Yes, of course. I hope you enjoy it.” Elias finally removes his bloody foot from the doorway. “Martin.” 

Martin maintains his flimsy impression of a smile and shuts the door definitely a little too quickly to be polite. “Finally,” he breathes out, turning and slumping back against it. 

“A gift basket? Was he serious?” Georgie regards the basket dubiously as Jon takes it off the shelf. 

“Right?” Martin pushes himself off the door and follows the two of them back to the living room. “What _was_ that?” 

“I bet it’s full of worms,” Georgie mutters.

“Or eyes.” 

Both Georgie and Jon turn to look at him. He flusters. “It’s- he’s clearly got a thing for them, alright?” he says, defensive. “I _know_ you saw his tie.” 

He hurries over to help Jon settle down onto the couch, taking his arm. He sinks down next to him, and Georgie sits on the coffee table. Jon lets out a long-suffering sigh. 

“Honestly, if you two could have refrained from antagonizing my boss-” 

“How does he even know where you live?” Georgie interrupts, having none of it. “Has he been to your flat before?” Martin is finding himself more validated by the minute. 

“I-” Jon blinks. “No. But I’m sure it’s- in my files somewhere.” Martin and Georgie share a look, and he can tell that none of them find the explanation all that convincing. But then Jon is opening the gift basket, and all attention is turned towards the contents. Martin holds his breath, tense, fingers curled around the corkscrew hidden in his pocket. 

Jon peels back the colorful tissue to reveal- 

Tea. And chocolate. And a gift certificate to Jon’s favorite bookshop. ...Actually, Martin realizes, all of the items are perfectly tailored to Jon’s tastes. Suspiciously so. His favorite brand of tea, that one chocolate with the weird flavors that he likes-- 

His eyes flick to Jon’s face, gauging his reaction. “Um.”

Georgie apparently realizes at the same moment, because she begins, “Jon? How does he know you like-” 

“I don’t _know,_ Georgie.” 

“Right.” Georgie presses her lips together, seeming to think. “Right. You’re quitting that job. Enough is enough. I’m sure I could find a spot for you on the podcast-” 

“I’m not quitting my job because my boss knows what tea I like,” Jon snips. 

“And chocolate,” Martin adds. “And where you bloody _live-”_

Georgie nudges the basket with her foot. “I wonder if we could take this to the police?” 

Now, there’s an idea. But Jon drops back against the cushions with an exasperated sound. “We are not calling the police on Elias.” he drones. “It’s a gift basket, Georgie. It’s not like he- killed someone.” 

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Martin muses darkly. Georgie points at him, indicating her agreement. 

Jon, however, seems decidedly checked out, and is already tearing open the foil on a bar of chocolate. “Well. Until then, I’d just like to enjoy my consolation candy, if you two don’t mind.” 

And, well, Martin can’t begrudge him that. Besides, the conversation is clearly over, and Jon looks tired. Martin pats him on the knee and pushes himself to his feet. “Police later, then. Don’t eat too much, I’m about to start dinner. Georgie, if you want to stay..?” 

Georgie stands up too, looking reluctant and still eyeing the gift basket with a frown. Still, she smiles at Martin. “I’m actually meeting Melanie in a bit, so I’d better get going. Jon--” She leans over and ruffles his hair. He scrunches his face and swats at her. “Take care of yourself, alright? Please?” To Martin, “And _you_ take care of him when he inevitably doesn’t.” 

This gets a muffled noise of protest around a bite of chocolate. Martin snorts and ducks his head. “Yeah, yeah I definitely will.” He follows Georgie to the door, where she turns back and pulls him into a quick hug. 

“On a serious note, take care of yourself too, okay? Jon’s a grown man, whether he acts like it or not.”  

“Thank you, Georgie,” comes the dry remark from the couch. 

“Not talking to you,” Georgie calls back cheerfully around Martin’s shoulder. She pulls away.  

Martin bites back a grin. “I know. And I will. Thanks.” 

After she’s gone, he returns to the couch and flops down next to Jon, putting an arm around him and drawing him to his side; a nearly habitual gesture already. Jon huffs, sounding amused. 

“Thought you were going to start dinner?” Even so, he settles into the embrace and Martin’s pulse stutters. He wonders if it’ll ever stop doing that, entirely. 

“I am.” Martin smiles at him and cuddles him closer. Drops a kiss into his hair. “Just wanted to sit down for a minute.” Honestly, he’s worn out. He shouldn’t be - Jon’s the one who’s hurt, and it’s not like he’s done much besides some cooking and light cleaning. He didn’t really sleep much last night, of course. He’s been trying to keep it together for Jon’s sake, because Jon _needs him,_ but he _is_ still shaken from waking up every hour or so with his heart in his throat, flipping on the bedside lamp and convinced that _this time_ they both really would be covered in-

“Martin.” 

He shuts his eyes and takes a shaky breath. He can feel Jon’s gaze on him. He forces his eyes open and gives him another smile. “Yeah?” 

Jon twists around and draws back to study him with a small frown. “Let’s order in tonight,” he says after a beat, decisive. “Pizza or- something. Something with bread.” 

Martin eyes the basket of candy on the coffee table. “Are you sure? We’ve got healthier food here, and I found a good recipe for-”

“Positive.” Jon reaches for his phone and presses it into Martin’s hand. “Whatever you feel like. I’m not all that hungry.” He turns back around and leans back against him.

“Told you not to eat the creepy apology candy.” Still, he can’t deny he’s relieved at the suggestion. A pool of warm gratitude spreads through his chest as he recognizes Jon’s gesture for what it is. He feels a much more genuine smile tugging at his mouth as he swipes open the phone. “Pizza alright?”  

“That’s what I said.” 

After he’s placed their order and handed Jon back his phone, they sit curled against one another in comfortable silence while they wait. Martin’s hand finds one of Jon’s, and he laces their fingers together. 

* * *

Martin is brushing his teeth later that night, getting ready for bed, when he feels eyes on him. He shivers and then startles and chokes on toothpaste when he glances up to find Jon hovering in the bathroom doorway. 

 _“Jon, what are-”_ he sputters, but then stops when he notices Jon’s expression. Hesitant but intent. His face tense in that way it gets when he wants to say something important but he isn’t sure how. 

So Martin gives him a reassuring smile around his toothbrush, instead, and then rinses his mouth and straightens up. 

“Hey,” he says softly. Wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and checks himself in the mirror - his eyes are still watering a bit - before turning back to Jon. “Everything okay?”

A little crease appears in Jon’s brow - he’s thinking. He nods once and says, finally, “Georgie’s right, you know.” 

Martin lets out a huff of laughter. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear it. About what?” He shuts off the light and makes for the bedroom - _their bedroom_ \- looking back to make sure Jon is following. 

He is, and stops in the doorway again. “You should- take care of yourself. You may not be physically hurt, but-” He studies the door frame, traces his fingers along the smooth laminate. Stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Take care of yourself, too, Martin,” he adds, finally. “And- if you ever want to, to talk, or anything, well. As you’ve said. We’re in this together.” 

Martin pauses halfway onto the bed as the words settle over him. A sudden surge of emotion has his eyes burning, and he can only nod and set about fluffling the pillows while he tries to compose himself. “Yeah,” he says quietly, voice rougher than he’d like. “Thanks, Jon. I... I will. I promise.” And unused as he still is to leaning on- _anyone,_ in practice, even now, he finds that he really means it. 

Because he knows that Jon will let him mean it. 

When he feels safe raising his eyes and venturing a small smile, Jon is meeting it with one of his own. Another wave of feeling threatens to undo all of his carefully won composure. 

But then Jon is making his way over to his side of the bed, continuing, “...I would offer to take care of you myself, but…” He climbs into bed and flops back onto the pillows. Blinks up at Martin, a wry smile curving his mouth. “I think we both remember how that went, last time.” 

This gets a snort from Martin, and he sniffs and swipes at his eyes and lays down next to Jon. “Hm, you may have a point, there. The effort was sweet, though.” 

“That’s not what you said when I dumped tea all over you.” 

“Hey, I was sick! I took it back almost right away.” 

Jon grins, and Martin curls a hand against the back of his neck and presses their foreheads together. “Really though,” he murmurs. “Thanks, Jon.” 

“I’m pretty sure emotional support is the bare minimum in a relationship,” Jon demurs, and pulls away, but only enough to switch off the bedside lamp before settling back down. Martin rolls his eyes, safe in the dark, and lets him drop the subject. He reaches out to pull him close again instead. Jon comes willingly, tucking himself up under Martin’s chin in that stiff but surprisingly needy way of his that Martin finds so endearing it hurts. 

Jon’s hair is soft beneath his fingers and his breath is warm and slow against his throat, and Martin thinks that it’s definitely all worth it. Not just the past week. Or the past few months. But- everything in his life that’s led him here. That’s let him have this. 

Definitely worth it. 

* * *

“Ow, what was that for?” Martin rubs at his stinging elbow, where Melanie had stalked over and whacked him with a stack of travel brochures as soon as she’d spotted him by his desk.

She steps back, looking satisfied. “For almost getting eaten by worms again?” 

“It’s not like I did it on purpose.” He pulls out his chair and sinks into it. Takes his laptop out of his bag and powers it on. 

It’s been a week since they got attacked by Prentiss, and absolutely nothing Martin said or did this morning could prevent Jon from going into work, so he figured he may as well come in, too. He’d already begun working on some things from home, but being back in the office is nice. 

Or it _was._

Melanie perches on the edge of his desk, brochures still curled menacingly in her fist. “Maybe not, but if you and Jon had got your shit together literally any other time, and hadn’t ended up making out in a pile of worms or whatever-” 

Martin chokes and whips his head up to stare at Melanie with wide eyes, face flaming. _“What?_ How did you know about that?” 

Melanie gives him a horrified look. “God, _ew._ What the hell? You mean _you did? I was teasing-”_  

“No!” Martin shakes his head rapidly. “Not- not like- I mean, we, um, we kissed, yeah-”

“...Right.” 

“-and there _were_ worms-” 

_“Are you fucking kidding me?”_

“Not like- it wasn’t like _that._ It wasn’t weird, it was- it was really…” Martin buries his undoubtedly very red face in his hands. “How did you even know?” he whines.

“That you guys finally got together?” Melanie asks. “Georgie told me.” Of course. 

Martin peeks at her through his fingers. “Did Jon tell her?” 

Melanie shrugs, flippant. “Not yet. She’s planning to badger him for details next time she gets him alone, though.” She hops off the desk. “She just told me the air was actually breathable last time she saw you guys. You know, as opposed to so thick with romantic tension she could cut it with a knife. She put two and two together.” 

He tries to keep being mortified, he really does, but. Well. He bites his lip, forcing back the beginnings of a giddy smile the best he can. Slowly lowers his hands to the desk. 

“...It’s that obvious?” he asks, sheepish. 

Melanie’s answering bark of laughter tells him all he needs to know. “You have no idea.” She shakes her head. “Congrats, by the way. I really mean it. I feel bad saying you deserve this, but since this is apparently a good thing...” 

The battle is lost, and he lets out a happy, breathless laugh, beaming at her. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. It really is. Thanks, Melanie.” 

She pats him on the shoulder. “Gross.” Then, turning more serious, “That aside. You okay, though? I mean from, you know.” 

Martin sobers a bit, then. “Oh. Sure, I mean…” He chews his lip, considering a polite answer. Then he decides on honesty, instead, with a rueful smile. “...Not really? But, but I will be. Jon’s been- it’s been good. Having him there. We’ll be okay.” 

“...Good. That’s good. I hope so.” She seems finished, so Martin thanks her again and starts to return to his work. But then she asks, “Hey, what are you doing for lunch?” 

He hums, thinking. “I was probably just going to catch up on some w-”

“Alright, false. You’re coming out with me.” 

Martin blinks up at her. He doesn’t think he’s ever actually had lunch with Melanie. At least not one on one. “Oh. Um, are you sure? I mean I really do-” 

“Yep.” She plants a hand on her hip and eyes him critically. “You’ve been through some shit. And I’ll try to take your word for it that Jon is helping, but he’s _not_ going to be your only support system. Do you like Chinese?” 

“Yeah, yeah it’s fine, but…” 

“Good.” She takes a step back, then turns to leave. “In the meantime, get busy. We’re on a deadline.” 

“I’m _trying,”_ he calls after her, pointedly. He huffs and turns back to his laptop with yet another smile forming on his lips; this one soft and fond. Something pleasant curls through his chest, spreading to fill some of the remaining hollow spaces there.

* * *

Jon scans the notes Tim and Sasha had made for him, recounting their experiences during the attack. He’d desperately wanted to get a proper statement from them - he still itches for it, for as detailed a record as possible, just in case- he doesn’t know. Just in case. But they’d both protested rather strongly at having to relive everything that had happened, and he’s been working on not being a dick, at various people’s recommendations, so. The reports they’d written up in his absence will have to suffice. 

He’s just taken out his tape recorder when a tapping at the doorway draws his attention. 

Tim is standing there - well, leaning, really, arms braced loosely on the frame. He looks tired; Jon had noticed it earlier. He figures none of them have been sleeping all that well this past week. 

“Hey, boss. You want to come out with Sasha and me for lunch?” 

Jon glances at the notes and the stack of statements waiting on his desk. He’d already fallen hopelessly behind in the months they’d been researching Prentiss, and now in the wake of the attack and their journey through the tunnels, he has other questions. Just more and more damned questions. He sighs. Glances back up at Tim.

And then he pushes his chair back. Tim grins. 

“...Sure, why not. Let me get my wallet.” 

The walk to the restraurant - Sasha’s choice; apparently they serve great chips and have a good lunch special - is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Just pensive. And again, so bloody tired. 

It’s hot out, but it’s a short enough distance and they’d all agreed they could use the fresh air. Sasha has her arm looped through Tim’s, and Tim slings his other arm around Jon’s shoulders. Jon tenses and starts to shrug out of it as usual, but something stops him this time. He supposes they could all use the connection, as well, symbolic and uncomfortable as it may be. 

They file inside and Sasha leads them to her favorite booth, giving a little victory shout when she finds it vacated. 

“It’s lucky,” she explains, as she and Jon slide in behind the table. Jon raises an eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that,” she says. “They give you more chips when you sit at this one! I’ve tested it.” 

Tim laughs, and it’s almost as bright as before. “Props for putting your research skills to good use. I’ll give them my most dashing smile when I order, and we should get even more.” He holds up his hand for a high five, which Sasha obliges. “Drinks?” 

“Ah…” Jon furrows his brow. “Do you really think we ought to be drinking in the middle of a workday?” 

Tim fixes him with a serious look. “Jon, after last week, I think we _especially_ ought to be drinking in the middle of a workday.” 

Sasha agrees. “And you-” she dips her head towards Jon, “-got eaten by worms. I mean, if anyone deserves a drink on the job, it’s you.” 

“I didn’t actually get _eaten-”_

“Drinks!” Tim concludes cheerfully, and he’s off before Jon can argue any further. 

Jon lets his head fall onto his folded arms, more tiredly amused than exasperated. They do have a point. After what they’ve all been through, they certainly deserve _something._ Somehow gift baskets don’t quite cut it.

He frowns, at that. Speaking of--

“Sasha,” he begins, raising his head. “Did you get a visit from Elias? Or- or a gift, or..?” 

She gives him a bemused look. “No..? Should I have?” 

“Maybe?” He straightens up, picks absently on a loose fleck of varnish. “He... stopped by my flat the other day with a gift basket.” 

Her eyes go wide and she chokes on a startled laugh. “Sorry? Elias brought you a _gift basket?”_

Jon allows himself a short laugh. He traces his fingers along a groove in the table. “It was- very uniquely tailored to my interests. Favorite tea, favorite chocolate. A- gift certificate...”

Sasha pushes her glasses up. “Wow. I want to make a joke about favoritism, but honestly, Jon, this is getting weird.” 

“Tell me about it,” Tim calls, weaving through a small crowd, loaded down with drinks and plastic baskets of greasy food. They both hurry to relieve him of his burden before catastrophe strikes, and he slides in next to Jon. “But you have to be more specific, these days. What’s getting weird, now?” 

Sasha arranges her drink and her basket of chips neatly in front of her. “Elias brought Jon a gift basket. To his flat.” 

Tim grimaces. “First, yikes. Second, why didn’t we get one?” He bumps Jon with his shoulder. “Something going on that I should tell Martin about?” 

“Tim,” Sasha warns. 

“Absolutely not,” Jon intones into his glass. He sets it down with a dull thud. “To be fair, I _did_ get ‘eaten by worms’, as everyone likes to put it.” 

“Oh, I see.” Tim nods, understanding. He pops an onion ring in his mouth. “That’s what it takes to get any decent compensation for this job. Supernatural trauma? Long weekend. Asphyxiation? Walk it off--” 

“I have some chocolate left,” Jon offers flatly.  

“No thanks, boss. You like that weird shit. Pineapple? Seriously?” 

 _“Tim.”_ Sasha steals one of his onion rings. “We were talking about Jon’s workplace harassment suit.” 

“I’d rather not, if it’s the same to you,” Jon grumbles. He finally takes a chip from his basket. “We’ve got more than enough to talk about, at the moment. Prentiss may be dead - _allegedly -_ but there’s still the matter of how and why-” 

“And I’d rather talk about suing Elias,” Tim counters around another onion ring. “At least while I’m eating.” 

Sasha raises her glass to that. “I have a friend who knows someone who dropped out of law school.”

Jon places his head soundly back on the table with a defeated sigh. Someone pats his arm.  

“We’ve got your back,” Tim reassures him. 

Thankfully, Jon’s phone buzzes before they can come up with any real plan of action. He sits up and digs it out of his pocket, already more than half certain who’s contacting him. His stomach gives that little flip he’s become so used to by now. Sure enough, it’s a message from Martin.

_“How are you doing?”_

Jon rolls his eyes. It’s the second time Martin has asked him that, today. He types back a reply. _“Still fine. Out for lunch with Sasha and Tim. They’re a menace together, as usual.”_ Then, _“How are you?”_

The reply is almost instant. _“Great! I’m glad you’re having fun.”_ Jon snorts. Of course Martin would interpret it that way. 

He knows him too well. 

Another message comes seconds after: _“I’m still fine too :) out with Melanie.”_

And then a third; one that has Jon’s heart behaving rather stupidly: _“See you tonight, don’t stay too late! Love you.”_

Everything else blurs out of focus as he stares at those last two words on his screen. His breath catches hard somewhere in his throat, and he has to restart his fumbled reply three times before he gets it right. 

_“You too.”_

As he slides his phone back in his pocket and straightens up, it occurs to him first: that his face hurts, and second: that Tim and Sasha are giving him a very knowing look. ...Smiling, that’s why his face hurts. He’s smiling like _an idiot._ Well. 

He clears his throat and stuffs a handful of chips in his mouth. “Er- Martin,” he mumbles in explanation. 

“You don’t say,” Tim says lightly. Sasha giggles. 

Jon scowls at them. “Yes,” he makes his tone as dry as possible, “Martin and I are in a relationship. I’d appreciate it if we could all be adults about it.” As if the reprimand can do anything to offset the color high on his cheeks. Or the smile that he knows hasn’t quite left his eyes. 

Sasha holds her hands up. “We didn’t say anything!” 

“Nope, nothing,” Tim agrees. “Not to your face, at least. While you were out, I _did_ tell Sasha all about your romantic document storage romp-” 

And Jon really regrets attempting to take a drink just then. He chokes and sets his glass down hard, coughing. Tim pats him on the back, and Jon scoots out of his reach, glaring. “It wasn’t-” _cough_ “-like that. We just- it was. It was the worms,” he explains helplessly. 

“Kinky.” Tim makes a show of looking impressed.

Jon groans and lets his head fall back against the seat, and Sasha hurries to rescue him. “We’re just happy for you. That’s all.” She hands him a stack of napkins, which he takes gratefully and begins patting at the now very damp front of his shirt. “Even if you did lose me a good chunk of money.” 

“Can you believe this woman, Jon?” Tim sounds aggrieved. “She actually bet against you two. And _she’s_ your favorite.” 

“You’re _both_ on thin ice at the moment,” he snaps. But despite his worst intentions, it carries very little heat, and Jon finds that he mostly just feels- warm. Warm and grateful. Grateful that after everything, they still get to have this. It could have gone so much worse. 

That thought manages to cool him, a bit. It still _could._

Whether any of them wants to talk about it, what happened with Prentiss really does open up a lot of questions, and a lot of potential problems. What did she want with the institute? How did she manage to get in through the tunnels? How long had she been there, waiting, growing stronger, planning her attack? 

What else could be down there, doing the same? 

It’s not something they can ignore. 

“I’m going back in the tunnels,” he announces, grinding the friendly banter around him to a halt. 

Tim turns on him, disbelief written on his face. “Like _hell_ you are.” 

“Jon,” Sasha says, peering at him, concerned. “We don’t know what might down there-” 

“Exactly,” Jon counters. He rakes a hand through his hair. “Exactly why I need to go back. We have no idea what Prentiss was doing down there. And what if it wasn’t some freak attack. What if-” 

“Oh my god.” Tim groans and flops back against the seat. He downs the rest of his drink. “Talk about mood whiplash. We were having _fun,_ Jon. Can you not go one hour without spooky bullshit?”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says. He means it. But- “I’m sorry, but we barely made it out of this one. I- can’t risk us getting caught off guard again.” _I can’t risk losing this,_ goes the unspoken sentiment, surprising him with its clarity. 

Tim and Sasha seem to understand, because they share a long look; Sasha’s sympathetic, Tim’s resigned, both coming out equally resolved. 

“Fine,” Tim sighs at length. He throws an arm companionably around Jon’s shoulders. “Fine. If you’re going to do something stupid, and we know you will-” 

“Hey-”

“-then you’re at least not doing it alone.” It takes Jon a second to catch his meaning, and then he twists around to face him, alarmed.

“Tim. I’m not asking either of you to-”

“And we’re not asking either,” Sasha cuts in. “Tim’s right. _You’re_ right. We all know something’s going on, and pretending otherwise hasn’t kept us safe. We need to have each other’s backs.” 

Jon sighs and leans forward on his elbows. He feels both like a heavy weight has been lifted, and suddenly, immeasurably tired. 

“You’re telling Martin, though,” Tim states, matter of fact. “And we’re not responsible if he locks you in your flat for the next five years. Deal’s off, then. Tough luck.” 

Sasha hums in agreement, and Jon can’t help but smile again, despite- _everything._

Silence falls on them as they pick at what’s left of their meal, none of them particularly wanting to head back to work after that, or knowing quite where to go from here. Jon feels a twinge of guilt and decides to make an attempt. 

“So, Sasha,” he ventures, after a beat. “You, ah, said something about a lawyer friend?” 

* * *

He leaves early - for him - and picks up a fresh sunflower on the way. He’s exhausted; mentally and physically, and his leg is killing him. It’ll be good to get home. Martin is home.

Martin is also pacing the living room when he opens the door, and rushes over to him. 

“Jon! Are you alright?” He looks him over, hands hovering, brows drawn down in worry. 

Jon blinks at him. “Yes..?” 

Martin deflates, and pulls him into a warm hug. “Good,” he murmurs into his hair. “Sorry.” He laughs a bit, stepping back but not entirely releasing him, keeping his hands resting at Jon’s shoulders. “It was fine, I was fine, but then I started _thinking,_ and, well, you know.” 

Yeah. Jon knows. He leans into Martin’s chest and lets himself relax for the first time since he left the institute. “I know.” He feels lips brush over his hair, and his eyes fall shut against the feeling it elicits. It - _them, this -_ is still so much to process. Not in a bad way. Not at all. Just- a lot. 

He steps back out of Martin’s arms and holds up the flower. And no, on second thought; the way Martin looks at him, then? _That’s_ a lot. 

“How was your day?” he asks, in lieu of anything else he can’t summon the words for right now, following Martin into the kitchen. 

Martin hums thoughtfully, plucks the flower from his hand. “Hm, alright! Not bad. A lot of work to catch up on; amazing how fast it piles up, Christ.” He smiles at Jon over his shoulder as he carries the vase over to the sink. “What about yours?” 

“Long,” Jon says. He props himself against the counter, absently watching Martin trim the stem on the flower and cut off the excess leaves. “But- but alright. Like you said, a lot to catch up on.” 

Martin’s hand brushes his arm as he passes by to replace the vase on the table. A thoughtless, familiar touch, full of so much more meaning now that Jon still can’t wrap his mind around. 

"Want to bitch about it together over dinner?” Martin offers brightly. “I, um, I got extra at lunch with Melanie today so we wouldn’t have to worry about cooking.” 

“Sounds brilliant. Thank you,” Jon breathes, relieved for both of them. Martin beams at him, and it settles tight and tremulous in Jon’s chest. Brings with it a certainty that he can’t possibly deserve this. That it can’t really be his. After everything, it still just doesn’t add up. 

Chasing an impulse, he catches Martin’s wrist as he passes by again for the fridge. When Martin pauses and turns a quizzical look on him, Jon wavers just a second before leaning in to press a quick kiss to his jaw. 

Martin blinks, cheeks coloring in that way that makes his freckles stand out so nicely. Jon is going to get them counted, someday. It’s _important._ Something about- making the most of the time he’s allowed to have this, he’d probably think if he had time. 

But for now, his thoughts are being rather abruptly cut short with a surprised yelp as Martin curves a hand against his cheek backs him up against the counter, returning his affection tenfold. 

He can't possibly deserve this, he’s certain. Any of it.

And they’re certainly not okay. 

But maybe it’s not up to him. 

And maybe they will be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I can't believe this fic is almost over. Like, legitimately can't believe it. It doesn't feel real. What even was my life before I started writing this? What will my life be after? Will I not just crumble into dust and blow away on the breeze, my life's purpose finally completed?
> 
> Anyway. 
> 
> They're soft. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!! Thank you as always for reading. I really do appreciate each and every one of you immensely. You've made this whole absurdly long thing more than worth it. <3
> 
> (Also: Thank you to everyone for your patience while I took a week off. It was much needed, and all of the kind and supportive messages I received made me soft as hell inside. You're all lovely.)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. This is it, y'all. 
> 
> By the way, so sorry to everyone whose comments I didn't get around to answering last week! I truly was just unable to get to it. Please know that I loved and appreciated them all and they made my entire week as always. You're wonderful. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the final chapter - that we get to witness - of these dumbass idiots' love story. 
> 
> Also I just need to extend my most heartfelt thanks to my dear friend [somuchbetterthanthat](https://somuchbetterthanthat.tumblr.com/) for talking me through a mini 6am breakdown over Plot Things and for having the most galaxy brain ideas. I owe you my life.

Martin wakes up to the familiar sensation of hair sticking to his mouth and a sharp knee digging into his hip. It’s not remotely comfortable, but even groggy with sleep it brings an immediate smile to his face. Of all the little things he’s come to be comfortably accustomed to, his boyfriend twining around him without fail every night like some kind of heat-seeking vine is one of the most endearing. 

He can’t check the time - his mobility is a tad compromised at the moment - but the strength of the sun streaming through the window tells him enough. He nuzzles into the sleep-tangled mess of hair in front of him. 

“Jon.” 

There’s a beat, followed by an unnatural stillness. 

Martin huffs out a quiet laugh and kisses the top of Jon’s head. “I know you’re awake. We have to get up.” 

The vine clings just a little bit tighter. 

 _“I know,_ but we’re going to see the flat at eleven, and then we told Georgie and Melanie we’d-”

He finds himself abruptly freed as Jon shoves away and flops over with a pained groan, dragging a pillow over his face.

“Can I have one day where I don’t have to interact with Melanie King?” comes the muffled complaint. 

Martin rolls his eyes as he pushes himself into a sitting position. “You haven’t seen her in over a week.” He stifles a yawn and reaches for his phone. 

“My previous record was a year.” 

“You know, everyone knows you’re both just playing it up for the drama, at this point. You get along fine. I mean for you guys.” Martin yanks the pillow off of Jon’s face and tosses it aside. “Come _on,_ it’s already after nine.” 

The look Jon gives him is nothing short of petulant. Martin snorts. Then he dips down to kiss his forehead before finally sliding out of bed. 

“Well, _I’m_ going to go shower. Love you.” He pauses halfway to the door, waiting. _“...I love you.”_

An exasperated, drawn-out sigh and a warm, if grumbled, “...I love you, too” are eventually forthcoming, and Martin grins to himself. That’s been pretty nice to get used to, too. He goes to grab a fresh towel and lays one out for Jon while he’s at it. The fluffy yellow one.

When he comes back to the bedroom a short while later, Jon is propped up against the headboard, texting. 

Martin moves around the room, collecting his clothes for the day. “Who’s that?” 

Jon glances up at him before returning his eyes to the phone. He types out something and then sets it down on the nightstand. “Sasha. She’s found a new lead on the circus. At least she’s fairly certain.” He slings his legs over the side of the bed and finally gets up, stretching. 

“Oh.” Martin pauses, one leg in his trousers. “Should we- do you need to go in..?” 

“I-” Jon grimaces. “No. I asked, and she has a handle on it for now. Besides, she’s working from home. She forwarded me what she found.” 

“If you’re sure.” Martin resumes getting dressed, watching Jon as he lays out his own clothes. It’s bothering him, Martin can tell; not going. But ever since they found out exactly what the institute _is,_ they’ve been trying to make sure no one spends any more time there than strictly necessary. Doing what they need to do - right now, learning what they can about the Stranger - but staying connected to their lives outside. _Making_ lives outside. 

It’s not perfect, and Martin hates every day that any one of them is stuck there, but it’s the best solution they’ve got for now. And it helps.  

He fixes them both a quick breakfast while Jon showers, relieved to see that he comes out looking less distressed. They chat quietly about other things while they eat and Martin texts Georgie to confirm the time, and then they’re on their way. 

“Good sized kitchen,” Martin points out. It’s easily twice the size of the one in their flat, with spacious countertops and a double sink. Jon has taken up cooking recreationally in the past few months - in the name of getting a hobby, at Martin’s and Georgie’s insistence, anything at all not related to work. They’ve both found that he’s really quite good at it, and finds it cathartic, besides. 

Plus, it gets him to eat regularly without any extra trouble on Martin’s part, so it’s a win on all sides. 

He wanders in after Martin, looking around. He nods, looking faintly pleased, but his mind is clearly elsewhere. 

Martin frowns and takes an instinctive step towards him. “Everything alright?” 

“Hm?” Jon blinks at him. “Oh. Oh, yes, just-” He averts his eyes, suddenly looking a bit sheepish. “I, er, I asked if they allow pets here. They do. Small ones.” 

It takes Martin a second, but then his frown instantly morphs into a wide grin. “Are you asking me if we can get a cat?” 

Now Jon definitely looks sheepish. He stares at the smooth countertop with studied concentration. Traces his fingers along the edge of it. “It’s not like we haven’t discussed it before. And- I know you get to spend a lot of time with the Admiral, since you started working more with Georgie-” 

“Yes.” 

This gets Jon to look up. He narrows his eyes. “Yes..?”

“Yes, Jon, we’ll get a cat,” Martin laughs. “It’ll be nice to have the extra company.” _And I think it would be good for you,_ he doesn’t say. 

“Oh.” Jon smiles - one of those rare, bright, full smiles that Martin is still trying to find new ways to draw from him. He mentally files away ‘cats’ on his growing list. And then Jon quickly bites it back and stuffs his hands in his pockets, looking past Martin and out into the dining room. 

“Good. I mean, I’m glad you’re on board. I think it- it could help.” He clears his throat. “So, this seems like a nice one. Ready to sign?”

Martin lets out a startled laugh. “We haven’t seen it all!” 

Jon huffs irritably. He waves his hand vaguely at their surroundings. “It has a kitchen, an office for you, and enough room for our cat.” 

“All the essentials.” Martin rolls his eyes. “Still, I’d like to at least check out the water pressure.” 

“Right. Of course you would.”

“What’s that even supposed to _mean,_ Jon?” 

Jon levels him with a flat look as they leave the kitchen. “You are the pickiest man I’ve ever seen about your showers.” 

Martin scoffs, half indignant, half amused, but refrains from taking this any further. If only for the sake of the poor lady showing them around. 

Half an hour later he’s sat next to Jon on the tube on their way to Georgie’s new studio. 

In the wake of learning about- well, everything, he and Melanie had decided they no longer had the stomach for in-person supernatural encounters, and so Melanie had handed over control of the channel to Andy and defected to Georgie’s podcast. They’re currently working on getting her own show running, and talking about taking on other projects. Georgie has taken Martin on as a regular guest, as well. 

Today, she and Melanie are getting everything moved into the new space, and since Martin is off work - he’d also picked up a job at a bakery that opened recently - they’re going over to help out. 

Jon is quiet and preoccupied next to him, and Martin takes the opportunity to study him. He watches him first read the email Sasha had sent him, and then settle back against his seat and gaze absently down the aisle. He looks- relaxed. Tired, careworn, but genuinely alright, all things considered. On impulse, Martin reaches out to take his hand. Jon startles and looks up, takes in Martin’s smile, and offers a small one of his own before lacing their fingers together.

* * *

Georgie is just getting back with an arm-full of donuts and coffee - one iced, extra sweet, extra un-coffee-like for Jon, as always - when they arrive at the studio. 

Jon reaches for his drink, and she makes a scolding noise and steps back out of his reach, regarding both of them critically. 

“And just where have you two been?” 

“Sorry.” Jon tosses a sharp look at Martin. _“Someone_ wanted to check the water pressure in the new flat.” 

Martin makes an offended sound next to him, and Georgie rolls her eyes. “The nerve of him, right?” She shoves the box of donuts into Jon’s arms and - much more politely, he notices - hands Martin the coffees. “Come on, tell me about it while we work.” 

Melanie is on a step ladder when they walk in, placing sound-proofing tiles. She twists around at the sound of the door opening and slumps against the wall. “Oh, thank god.” 

She hops down from the ladder and makes a bee-line for Jon, taking the donuts from his arms and unceremoniously replacing them with a stack of foam tiles. “Here. You two be useful for a change. My back is killing me.” 

“We’re only fifteen minutes late,” Jon grumbles. 

“And I’ve been here working for forty-five,” Melanie snips back. 

“Remind me when we mutually decided that you’d-” 

 _“Children,”_ Martin warns lightly. He takes half the tiles from Jon and makes his way over to where Melanie had left off. 

“Thank you, Martin,” Georgie calls over, long-suffering, from where she’s settled down on the floor to start unboxing equipment. “We cannot let those two get started.” To Jon and Melanie, “You know you’re just alike, right?” 

“What can I say?” Melanie says, offhand. “You have a type.” She opens the box of donuts. Jon snatches one before she can stop him - more out of petulance, he admits, than actually wanting one - and hurries over to join Martin. 

“So,” Georgie asks, “how was the flat?” 

“Really nice!” Martin answers, brightening. Jon smiles at the enthusiasm in his voice. “It’s clean, has plenty of room, the second bedroom is perfect for that office I’ve been needing. _Beautiful_ kitchen for Jon.” 

“Great water pressure,” Jon adds, innocently enough. 

“Would you-” Martin swears as one of the tiles falls and smacks him in the face. Jon catches it and hands it back to him before resuming placing his own. “-behave? Just because you don’t care if your showers- _Anyway,_ we like it! We’ll be moving in as soon as Jon’s lease is up.” 

“About time,” Melanie says. She’s crouched down near Georgie and dragged another box over. “Now you guys can take a turn hosting game nights.” 

“We’ve _offered,”_ Jon points out, waspish. 

“Yeah, but no one wants to hang out in your dingy grandma flat all night. We’re trying to _keep_ everyone’s spirits up, remember?” 

 _“Melanie,”_ Georgie scolds, but Jon can hear the laughter in her voice. He regards her flatly before turning back to the wall. More seriously, she adds, “Congrats, you two. You’re getting your official first place together! It’s a big step.” 

“Yeah, actually,” Melanie agrees. “Hosting benefits aside, we’re happy for you guys.” 

Martin thanks her shyly, and Jon ducks his head and sets about lining up the next tile with determined precision. Warm contentment curls in his chest, and he can feel Martin’s eyes on him, followed by a gentle hand sliding across his back -- before it has to dart back up to catch another falling tile. 

And so they get back to work, chatting idly about the new flat and then the studio and then plans for future podcast episodes.

Jon doesn’t say much, content to just listen to the friendly chatter. And he is. Content, that is. More than that, he thinks, considering for a moment; he’s happy. 

It might seem absurd, considering.

He’s _happy._ There was a long time in his life when he truly didn’t think he’d get to have any of this. And then he got it, and almost as quickly thought he’d have to watch it all be ripped away again. 

But here they are. It’s not perfect, but they’re all working through it. And they’re closer than ever. Not just him and Martin, but- everyone. Tim and Sasha and him. Georgie. Melanie. They’re doing what they can with the circumstances they have, and they’re supporting each other and keeping each other grounded and it’s- more than Jon ever hoped for or thought he _should_ hope for, even without supernatural circumstances. 

It’s good. 

“Oh, sure,” Martin’s voice, bubbling with laughter, breaks into his thoughts. He’s talking to Georgie or Melanie, Jon didn’t hear. “Sure, let me just grab my phone and ring up all the _ghosts I know-”_

Jon snorts, despite having lost track of the conversation a while ago. Martin beams down at him and it makes his chest tighten pleasantly.  

Every moment like this means more to Jon than he can put into words. Someday he should try. But for now he just accepts a bundle of wires from Martin and crouches down to begin untangling them while that warmth curls up through his ribcage again and settles there. 

Suddenly - or not, Jon’s lost track of things again - Melanie stands up. “Martin,” she says, “come help me with something upstairs?” 

Jon looks up at hearing Martin addressed. Fixes his eyes on his face. Martin blinks and seems a bit taken aback. So it was sudden, then. But then he smiles and says, “Um, yeah, sure?” and turns to Jon. “Be back in a bit, I guess?” 

“Uh- right, alright.” Jon accepts his quick hug and watches them leave, brow furrowed. He turns to Georgie with a question on his lips, but she’s got her back to him, steadily working at getting their equipment set up on the table. 

He stands up to go join her, pulling up a chair across from her. “So…”

“So,” she agrees, not looking up. Not getting anything from her, then. He huffs in frustration and reaches for a box of- something. He’ll figure it out, he supposes. 

They work together in companionable silence - a microphone, it turns out, that’s what he’d grabbed - until finally Georgie speaks up. 

“Hey,” she says. “How are you doing, Jon? Really?” 

Jon glances up at her, then returns his attention to the mic he’s fitting together. “I’m- good..? I’m good, actually. It’s-” He presses his lips together, thinking. “It’s better. It’s not easy, but, it’s better. Martin makes sure of that,” he laughs. “And… you, and everyone else. It’s not easy, keeping things balanced. But it helps.” 

“Good.” After a beat, she reaches across and lays her hand on his forearm, giving it a quick squeeze. “I’m proud of you, Jon. I hope you know that. Not just for, you know. But everything else. I’m proud of you.”  

The plastic base he’d been fitting goes skittering across the table. “I- I, erm-” He quickly retrieves it, keeping his eyes down. He nods once, stiffly, and resumes his work. “...Thank you, Georgie. That means a lot.” He tries to pretend not to notice the sudden emotion clogging his voice, and knows she’ll be kind enough to do the same. 

He’s just had enough time to swallow back the feelings and no small embarrassment threatening to undo him, when Georgie clears her throat. He looks up to find her giving him a pointed, curious look. It makes him uneasy.

“On another note…” she begins, “...have you thought about it any more? The thing we talked about?” 

...Unease is quickly replaced with bafflement. He scrunches his face at her. “The thing we-” And then it hits him. “Oh. _Oh.”_ He instantly drops his eyes back to the table, fidgeting with the mic stand. “I- well, yes. Yes, I’ve thought about it.” He sets the mic aside and drags over the next box. 

“And?” She’s relentless. 

“And what?” Jon’s fingers stop their fidgeting in favor of tapping an agitated rhythm against the tabletop. “I’ve thought about it. ...And decided that it’s probably a bad idea, considering.” 

_“Jonathan.”_

_“Georgina,”_ he shoots back automatically. He raises his head again, fixing her with a serious look. “Look at us, Georgie- look at _me._ Look at our lives. Not- not to mention it’s too soon. Everything else aside, it’s only been a year-” 

“Since you made it official,” Georgie points out. “We all know you were a thing long before that. And you _lived together_ before _that._ If you’re hung up on doing things ‘right’, I’d say that ship has sailed, Jon.” 

“That’s- fair,” Jon concedes, reluctant. “That’s fair. But the other things I mentioned-”

“What about them?” 

When Jon raises an eyebrow at her, she amends, “Okay, I know it’s not something to just brush off. And that’s not what I’m trying to do, sorry.” She gives him a soft smile. “And I hope to god you guys find a way out of this mess. But for now, don’t hold yourself back from the good in your life while you’re trying to sort out the bad.” 

Jon regards her a long moment, then rubs at the back of his neck; a nervous habit he’d picked up from Martin. He drops his hand back to the table with a sigh. “...Do you really think it’s a good idea?” 

Georgie doesn’t hesitate. “Do you love him?” 

“Of- of course. Yes.” He feels his cheeks warming traitorously. Even now, after all this time. 

She nods, lips pursed. “And you really want this?” 

“I think we’ve established that, Georgie.” 

“And you think he’ll say yes?” 

“God, I hope-” he cuts himself off when he catches her smug look. “...Point taken,” he grumbles. “Fine. I’ll- I’m going to do it. Soon.” 

“Mhm.” Georgie stretches across the table for a loose adapter. Jon reaches it first and hands it to her. “I’m going to hold you to that. In your own time, of course. But it’s _not_ allowed to take another near-death experience, Jonathan, I _swear.”_ She flicks a scrap of cardboard at him. 

“Hey.” He knocks the cardboard off his shirt with a huff. Shakes his head. “...Thanks, Georgie. For-” he gestures vaguely at her. “All of it. All the time.” 

She grins at him. “Love you, Jon.” 

“You, too.” Then, desperate to change the subject, “You were, uh, talking about a new segment on the show..?”

She gives him a knowing look, but goes along with it. “Yeah, Martin helped come up with it, actually--” 

* * *

“So, what’s new with you?” Melanie asks once they’re upstairs. She’d brought Martin up here to help rearrange the room, apparently? Table off to the side, filing cabinet moved to the other, that old desk sat by the door and ready for Georgie’s friend to come and pick it up. 

Martin laughs. “Melanie, we talk almost every day.” 

“About boring stuff,” she says, waving him off. “Here, get the other side.” She grabs onto the end of the table, and he moves to the other. “I want to know the good stuff. Life-changing plans. That sort of thing.” 

“Um. Well.” Martin lifts the table on her count, and they carry it across the room and carefully set it down. “I don’t know, um, I’ve told you I’m going to uni next fall?.. If all goes well, I mean.” 

Melanie nods as she crouches down to get a grip on a filing cabinet. “Right, good. What else?” 

“Can I ask why I’m being interrogated?” Martin grabs the other side and they lift. He grunts in surprise; it’s a lot heavier than he’d expected. 

“Excuse me- _Jesus, what’s in here, bricks?_ \- for wanting to know about my best friend’s life.” 

Martin scoffs at that. “Best friend? Really?”

“Well, technically Georgie’s my best friend, yeah,” she amends. “But she’s got the girlfriend title now, so you’re promoted to best friend. Congratulations.” 

“Good to know.” Martin rolls his eyes, but fondly. They get the cabinet moved and go for the desk. They’ve got it halfway across the room when Melanie continues:

“So..? You didn’t answer my question. Anything else? Getting married any time soon- _shit, Martin-!”_

The desk slips with a violent crash, sending drawers flying open and loose papers cascading out across the floor. Martin freezes there, wide-eyed, face flaming. Then he flusters and springs into action, dropping to his knees and gathering up the spilled pages. 

“Sorry, sorry, but- _what? Why would you ask that?”_

Melanie kneels next to him, inspecting the desk for damage and replacing the drawers. “Because you guys are stupidly in love and practically married already?” She straightens up, dusting off her knees. “Desk is fine. No thanks to you.” 

He stands too, slipping the papers back into the top drawer. “Well, what do you expect, Melanie? Springing a question like- _that_ onto somebody.” 

They get the desk successfully moved, and Melanie perches on the edge of it. “Have you guys talked about it any..?” 

“Seriously?” Martin scrubs a hand over his still warm face. Props himself against the wall. “...Yeah? We have. A- a bit. In passing, like, not a serious sit-down conversation. But, erm, it’s something we both want, yeah.” He thinks. He _hopes._

His heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest, at least in part from the crash, but also…

Martin slips his hand reflexively into his pocket, fingers curling around the tiny box there. “Did, um,” he clears his throat. Fixes his face into something hopefully fairly neutral. “Did Jon say something, or..?” 

“Not to me, and if he’d said something to Georgie I’d probably know about it, so…” Melanie shrugs and hops off the desk. “But that’s good-”

“I’m going to ask him,” Martin blurts out. 

He notices Melanie still, then. She turns to him slowly, an odd expression on her face. “Ask him what, exactly..?”

“What were we just talking about?” Martin deadpans. “To... to marry me.” He feels a little laugh rising in his throat. “I’m going to propose to Jon.” 

Melanie’s eyes go wide with something that looks like alarm. “Oh. Martin, I don’t-” She snaps her mouth shut.

Martin frowns. “You were _just_ on me about marrying the guy-”

“No, no, marry him, by all means.” Melanie waves her hands. “Just- you’re asking _him?_ You’re sure?” 

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing. You know? Never mind.” She smiles and pats him on the arm. “Good luck. Seriously. And I’d better be invited to the wedding.” 

“Of course. And- thanks?” Martin watches her head back down the stairs with some consternation. He shakes it off and takes a moment to compose himself; smoothing out his clothes, making sure the box in his pocket isn’t too obvious. Forcing back the half giddy, half nervous smile that he feels dancing at the edges of his features.

Melanie hurries on ahead of him and back into the room where they’d left Jon and Georgie. Jon’s head snaps up when they walk in. He looks a touch flustered and wide-eyed himself. Martin tilts his head, questioning, but Jon simply gives him a tight smile and returns his attention to whatever he and Georgie were working on. 

Okay. Cool. 

Melanie strides over to Georgie’s spot by the table and slips an arm easily around her waist. “Help me with something upstairs?” she asks pointedly, leaning her head into Georgie’s shoulder. 

“Wait,” Jon begins, glancing from her to Martin and back again, “didn’t you just-” 

“Sure, let’s go.” Georgie drops a quick kiss to Melanie’s temple and they head for the stairs, both sending Martin an odd look as they go. 

Martin watches them helplessly. “What the hell…” He turns back to Jon, who he finds is studying his face carefully. Of course. It sets his heart racing again.

“Is everything alright?” Jon asks. 

“Hm? Yeah. Think so.” Martin casts one final baffled look towards the staircase before settling down in Georgie’s empty chair. More aware than ever of the little box pressing into his hip. He swallows his nerves and nudges Jon’s shin under the table with his foot. “So,” he says brightly. “What are we working on?” 

* * *

Jon studies the board before him shrewdly. He’s got a clear shot at Tim’s capitol with the bulk of his infantry, but Melanie is coming up on his flank and he’d have to divide his forces if he wanted to keep his _own_ capitol guarded, weakening his chances at both. He internally curses himself for falling for Martin’s trap all those turns back; he could really use some ranged pieces right now.  

It’s game night, just over two weeks later. Sasha is hosting this time, and they’re all huddled on the floor of her living room, surrounded by empty pizza boxes. Jon picks up a cavalry piece and hovers it above the board. He’s-

“Oh my _god,”_ Melanie breaks in. “For the record, if this was a real war? Your empire would be burned to the ground by now.” 

-trying to take this seriously. He says as much. “I thought that was what you wanted?” 

“Meaning ‘get off your phone and stop snarking the whole time’.” Melanie rolls her eyes. “Not turn into the world’s biggest board game nerd.” 

Jon narrows his eyes at her. Then he sets his piece back down and sits back. “I skip my turn.” 

“Are you serious? You’ve had me blocked in for _six turns, you prick-”_

Tim bursts into loud laughter and claps Jon on the shoulder. “Don’t take it personally,” he tells Melanie. “He just knows one of us will kick his ass the second he makes a m- hey!” 

While he was talking, Sasha had quietly taken her turn, and now his capitol is surrounded. She raises her eyebrows mildly. “Speaking of,” she says.

Martin snorts, and Jon makes eye contact with him across the board. 

Twenty-six. That’s how many freckles Martin has on his face. He gets to know that, now. He has for a while, but he always re-counts, just in case. 

Something warm and familiar passes between them and it makes Jon’s stomach swoop pleasantly. 

“Guys, you’re doing it again,” Melanie intones. “Martin, your move.” 

“Oh, right, right, sorry-” Martin flusters and hunches forward over the board, casting Jon a final shy glance before turning his attention to his pieces. Jon flusters too, and then even more so when he raises his eyes to catch Tim and Sasha exchanging a look. 

“What?” he snaps. 

“Just never get tired of this, that’s all,” Tim explains, disproportionately smug. 

“Ew.” Melanie shakes her head. “I really don’t get you two.” 

“Hey, you didn’t live through what we did,” Sasha points out. “Let us have our victory.” 

“I had to deal with Martin and _his_ pining.” Melanie’s turn comes up, and she glares at the board. “Still can’t fucking _move,_ Jon.” 

Tim scoffs. “You’re going to try and tell us that _Martin_ pining is worse than Jon?” 

“I’m right here, Tim,” Jon says irritably, flushed as he keeps his eyes firmly on the board. 

Martin speaks up. “Honestly. And come on, guys, it’s been a year. Can we talk about something other than my love life? Ever?” 

Melanie seconds that motion adamantly. Sasha rubs Martin’s arm companionably. 

“We don’t mean to make it weird. It’s honestly just the most interesting thing going on in our lives right now.” 

Now is Jon’s turn to scoff. “Do I need to remind you that we’re tracking a circus of supernatural clowns-”

Melanie and Martin both make a sharp, scolding noise. Jon flinches and whips his head up in alarm.

“Nope! Rule number one of game night,” Melanie says. “No clown talk.” 

“Jon, we’ve talked about this,” Martin scolds. Tim is shaking his head in disgust. 

Jon holds his hands up, placating. “Accident. It just- slipped out. Clown rule. I remember.” 

It takes him a moment to realize the sound swelling in the room is Sasha, doubled over in hysterical giggles. Jon straightens up, concerned. “Sasha..?” 

“Hold on,” she gasps, shaking with mirth. She sits up and leans into Martin’s side, swiping at her eyes. “Sorry,” she says, high and breathless. “It’s just that our lives are so _stupid-_ we have to have a _clown rule--”_

Tim promptly loses it next, and then Martin. Jon catches Melanie’s eye and they look at each other helplessly for a long moment before finally, reluctantly, letting the laughter catch them, too. 

Eventually, they do manage to finish their game - Sasha wins, as usual, but Martin almost got her - and Melanie heads home. The others decide to put on a movie at Martin’s suggestion; no one quite ready to part ways yet.  

“Sounds good,” Sasha says. “I’ve got some popcorn above the sink.” 

“Great! I’ll go fix it,” Martin offers. He squeezes Jon’s knee before rising and heading into the kitchen. Jon watches him leave. 

Tim stands up next, heading for the door. He’d grown quiet the last little while. “Be right back,” he says, cheerful as ever. “Just need some air.” 

Jon hesitates. These past several months have been the hardest on Tim, out of all of them. He’d been down after the Prentiss attack, but then when they’d found out- everything, had learned about the Stranger, well. Jon shares a look with Sasha, biting his lip. Finally, he gives a mumbled, “I’ll, ah, I’ll be…” He waves at the door and gets up to follow Tim. 

He finds him outside on the balcony, leaning on his elbows on the railing and staring out into the night, pensive. Jon joins him, mirroring his posture. Neither of them says anything for a long moment, until Jon tentatively breaks the silence. 

“Are you- are you thinking about-” 

“Yeah,” Tim bites out. He doesn’t look at Jon. “Never stop thinking about him, if I’m being honest.” 

Jon doesn’t know what to say to that. He peeks over at Tim, faltering. Finally he reaches an awkward hand out and settles it on Tim’s shoulder. Tim tenses briefly, giving Jon a sharp glance, before relaxing and slinging an arm heavily around his back. 

“What a mess, huh?” Tim asks. Jon assumes it’s rhetorical. “...Sasha referred me to her therapist,” Tim continues, after a blank. “The one she went to after Jane Prentiss. It helps. This-” He raises his arm from Jon’s back just long enough to gesture behind them, “-helps.” 

“I’m glad,” Jon answers quietly. He means it. He really does. 

Tim huffs out a humorless laugh, but the crooked smile he turns on Jon looks genuine, at least. “You know, you’ve got to start being more of a bastard again. You’re too soft these days, boss. I don’t know how to deal with you.” 

Jon starts to pull away, a sharp retort on his tongue more for the sake of playing along than anything, when the door creaks open, flooding the balcony with light. They both turn around. 

“Martin’s going to come looking for you guys,” Sasha warns, leaning out the door. “You know how serious he is about rule number two.” 

“What’s that one again?” Tim asks. 

“No brooding alone on the balcony,” Sasha says. At Jon’s skeptical look, she adds, "I know. But he’s your boyfriend, and they’re his rules. Take it up with him.” 

“Won’t be necessary,” Tim says. He claps Jon on the back with a resounding thump. Jon coughs and glares at him. “We’re not alone, at any rate. So we’re free to go on brooding all we like.”  

“You know I can hear you,” Martin calls lightly from inside the living room. 

“Busted,” Sasha mumbles, sing-song. “Come on, popcorn’s ready.” She turns and heads back inside. Once they’re back in, Tim takes the armchair, and Sasha curls up on one end of the couch. Jon sinks down on the other end next to Martin, letting him pull him close to his side. 

Martin smiles down at him, soft and concerned. “Hey. Alright?” 

Jon lets his head fall back against Martin’s warm shoulder. He hums, affirmative. “Just talking.” Martin pulls him closer and passes him the bowl of popcorn. 

When they get home late that night, while Martin is doing something or other in the kitchen before bed, Jon opens the bottom dresser drawer and peeks under the stack of old shirts he’s got stuffed in there. Checking on the tiny, plain box tucked away beneath them. The sight of it sends his pulse rocketing and he hurriedly replaces the shirts and slams the drawer shut, straightening up just as Martin enters the bedroom. 

Martin gives him a bemused look. One that quickly turns to suspicion. “Jon, if you’ve got a tape recorder or a statement or something-” 

“I _don’t,”_ Jon insists, defensive. He wipes his damp palms on his pajamas. “I just, ah- thought I saw... something. A bug.” 

“A bug.” 

“Yep.” 

And Martin doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he just shakes his head and climbs into bed. “Well, come on. It’s late. The ‘bugs’ can wait til morning.” 

Jon starts to protest out of habit, but he’s cut off by a heavy yawn. “...Right.” He climbs in next to Martin, who wastes no time wrapping him in his arms. 

“Christ, Jon, your heart’s pounding.” He sits up, brow furrowed in concern. “Was it a spider? Do you need me to get it?” He’s already half out of bed. Jon panics and shoots out his hand, latching onto Martin’s wrist. 

“No!” It comes out far sharper than intended and he winces. “I mean- it’s- it wasn’t a spider. It’s fine. Let’s just rest.” 

Martin hesitates a moment before sliding back into bed and turning off the lamp. Jon flops back against the pillow in relief. He’ll have to find another hiding spot. That or go ahead and ask the damned question. To his dismay, that sets his pulse racing even faster. He twists around in Martin’s arms, curling against him in a way that hopefully will make it less noticeable. Martin makes a surprised little sound and slides a hand into his hair. Murmurs some quiet endearment. 

 _Good,_ Jon thinks. Crisis averted. Good. 

He’ll have to do something about this. 

_Soon._

* * *

Martin rocks on his heels as the last customer meanders out of the shop. Honestly, it’s what? Fifteen steps to the door? How are they still here? His eyes flick anxiously from the clock to the street outside, stomach flipping every time someone passes by the door or so much as glances at the window.

Finally, _finally,_ the world champion of the leisurely pace pushes the door open and steps out into the street, and Martin rushes out from behind the counter and turns the lock and draws the blinds before anyone else can get a craving for last minute pistachio muffins. 

He sweeps up and wipes down the counters with such haste that he actually breaks a sweat. Then he counts the money, locks the register, and bolts for the backdoor, yanking his apron off and flinging it over his shoulder with a flourish of relief and frantic energy. 

They moved into their new flat today; Jon should already be there, getting things unpacked. And Martin definitely wants to hurry home to help him, and also just to enjoy the experience of moving into their first real place together. 

But that’s not why his throat is so dry and his hair is disheveled beyond all hope from him running his shaking hands through it every couple minutes. 

A little jolt of fear hits him - unfounded, for at least the hundredth time today - and he shoves his hand in his pocket. As soon as his fingers touch the box, he lets out a long gust of a sigh and sinks back against his seat. 

Tonight’s the night. He’s got it all planned out; later on, he’ll suggest they take a break from packing, that Jon go and have a shower or something. While he’s gone, Martin will lay out a blanket and some pastries he’s brought with him from the shop. Dig out that bottle of wine he’s got stowed away. Light some candles.

And there on the floor of their new home, surrounded by boxes and the clutter of their shared life, he’ll ask the man he loves more than that life itself to marry him. 

His skin prickles hot and cold in turns.

Perfect. Can’t go wrong. His foot bounces an anxious rhythm on the floor of the cab - habit he’s picked up from Jon - and he forcefully stills it. Curls his hands into tight fists on his lap. 

It _won’t_ go wrong. 

He bites his lip.

It _won’t._

* * *

...So far, everything that could possibly go wrong has done so with reckless abandon. 

Martin had arrived at the front door of their flat to the sound of a muffled curse. He’d broken into a sprint and flung the door open to find Jon standing in the middle of the hall, glaring with deepest offense at a spilled box of shattered plates. 

And things had only gone downhill from there. 

Somehow, an entire box of clothes had been misplaced in the move. Martin had rushed back to their old flat to look for it, praying to anyone who might be listening that the door would be unlocked. His prayers, of course, had gone unanswered. 

He’d managed to hunt down the landlord and beg him to come down and open it, only to find that the clothes weren’t even there. Arrived back to the new flat an hour later to Jon having broken a lamp - “What the hell are you _doing_ while I’m gone?” he’d demanded. Jon had snapped back in defense and muttered something that Martin swore _better not be about a bloody spider -_ and suddenly, to top it all off, the water pressure was _terrible._

And then, he realizes, once things have finally calmed down enough to make it noticeable - Jon is acting… weird. 

At first, Martin feels a twinge of guilt, thinking it must be because he’d snapped at him. But Jon briskly waves off his apology, and besides; he doesn’t seem upset. Just- _weird._

Martin watches him closely while they work; takes in his agitated, jerky movements and his tight, skittish expression. For an awful moment, it takes him back to the days after they’d found out about Gertrude Robinson - _god -_ and his imagination has a great time supplying him with new developments. 

“Um… how was your day?” he ventures, studying Jon’s face from across a large box of books. 

Jon startles and looks up at him, wide-eyed. “Oh. Oh- uh, fine. It was fine. Uneventful.” He taps his fingers against his thigh. “Yours?” 

“Long,” Martin says, frowning; not really hearing his own answer. Jon nods and resumes sorting through the books in front of him. There’s a faint flush to his cheeks, Martin notices. He reaches across and lays a hand to Jon’s forehead. 

Jon blinks at him. 

“Are you sick? Please tell me if you’re getting sick.” 

“...No…” Jon leans back out of his reach and sets another book aside. “Am I supposed to be?” The flush is creeping down his neck now, and he’s almost definitely avoiding Martin’s eyes. 

“...Right. No, no that’s… good. Just checking.” Martin watches him a moment longer and then gets up to grab another box. The box in his pocket jabs into his thigh despondently. Things could still turn around. Just a stressful start. But things could turn around. 

And they do, for a little while. 

Jon is still acting a bit- off, but as the evening wears he and Martin at least fall into comfortable conversation over sorting through knick-knacks and cutlery. Martin will talk to maintenance in the morning about the water, tomorrow evening they’ll get their bed frame put together, maybe next week sometime they can go furniture shopping. Sasha’s lead on the circus didn’t really go anywhere, but Tim found something in the library that might be helpful. She’s looking for another job, too; they can’t leave the institute, but she’d like to get something else part-time just to broaden her environment. 

And social circle, Jon had added with a touch of disdain, as if he couldn’t imagine her needing anyone else but them. 

 _Good for her,_ Martin had thought, sagely. 

It’s not perfect - hell, it’s _moving,_ of course it’s not going to be perfect, who is he kidding - but it’s finally turning a bit more pleasant and Martin’s heart flips when he thinks that his plan might still be salvageable. 

“I’m still thinking about studying literature,” Martin is saying, carefully lining a bookshelf up with the wall. “But then there are so many _kinds_ of literature. Do I just go for a general degree, or do I specialize in- in eighteenth century bee-keeping sonnets?” 

“Do you like eighteenth century bee-keeping sonnets?” Jon asks, sounding distracted, handing him a stack of books. 

Martin takes them and starts slotting them onto one of the shelves. “It was just an example, Jon. Point is-” 

It all happens so fast. 

First, there’s a crack and a crash as one of the shelves buckles and sends the books sliding and tumbling to the floor. Then the entire bookshelf falls forward, sending more books cascading to the floor and Martin staggering back out of the way, taking Jon with him. 

They stumble over _something_ and topple onto a box of something else - clothes, by the feel of it, thank _god -_ as the bookshelf lands heavily on top of another box, which contained something considerably less soft, judging by the shattering sound. 

Martin scrambles to sit up, dragging Jon up with him, checking him over. _“Shit-_ are you alright? Did I land on you, or-” 

 _“-fine-”_ Jon is saying, brushing himself off and looking thankfully more like a disgruntled cat than like he’s actually hurt in any way. “I’m fine, Martin. ...Are you?” 

And that’s- ha. That’s quite a question, isn’t it. Martin says something he’s sure is vaguely affirmative and turns back to the disaster in front of them. Yeah. He slumps forward and puts his face in his hands. Yeah, he might as well call this one a day. 

He says as much- not about his… _plans,_ obviously, but about the unpacking, but Jon doesn’t seem to hear him. Martin turns back to him, and flinches back when he finds Jon’s eyes fixed on him with startling intensity. That flush is back to his cheeks, and his mouth is set in a firm line.

A chill slides down Martin’s spine and the worry from earlier squirms its way back into his chest.

“Uh. Jon? Is everything-” 

“Let’s get married.” 

The words come out in such a rush that it takes Martin a full six seconds for them to really register. And then he chokes. 

“Wh- Jon, that’s- what are you-” he sputters, coughs, composes himself. “I mean, yeah, yeah, you mean- why are we talking about this _now?_ ” His voice is high and cracking with nerves, and he has to force his hand to not dart reflexively to his pocket. 

Jon is shaking his head, scowling and looking flustered and frustrated. The entire disaster playing out aside, it’s adorable, and it’s all Martin can do to keep from kissing the frown off his face. 

“I’m not- I’m not trying to _talk about it,_ Martin, I’m-” He takes a shaky breath, and Martin feels his thoughts grind to another screeching halt when he reaches into _his_ pocket and-

Jon presents him with a tiny, battered box, tied in purple ribbon. He watches transfixed as Jon unties it with trembling fingers, nearly dropping it, and pulls the lid off to reveal a simple ring. 

“I’m- I’m _asking,_ Martin.” And Martin almost laughs - only Jon could sound so put out and irritable while bloody- _proposing._ Because that’s what this is. 

It hits him square in the chest. That’s what this is. 

 _“Are you fucking kidding me?”_ he blurts. 

Which he realizes too late is probably not the best response, because Jon winces and immediately drops his gaze. “I- I know the timing isn’t the best, and I know it’s too soon, but when have we ever done anything _right-_ that’s not what I mean, that didn’t-” 

Shit. Martin hurries and reaches out, closing his hands over Jon’s fluttering ones and the little box nestled in them. “No! No, that’s not, I’m not saying-” 

“And I know our situation isn’t ideal, I mean in light of recent developments-” 

 _Shit._ Martin gives him a little shake. “Jon, oh my god, no, that’s not what I meant, if you would just shut up for a second-” 

“-I thought it would be- romantic, doing it here, I was going to light _candles,_ but-” 

Martin finally startles him into silence with a bark of laughter. “Oh my god.” At Jon’s offended look, he squeezes his hands. “Sorry, sorry, just- god. _I_ was going to light candles.” 

Jon’s miffed expression morphs into confusion. “You were…” Then understanding. His hands go slack in Martin’s grasp. “Oh. _Oh, you mean you were…”_

“Hang on-” Martin lets him go and reaches into his pocket, pulling out an equally battered little velvet box. His hands are surprisingly unshaky as he flips it open, revealing the ring inside. “I had a whole thing planned,” he explains in a rush. “Blanket, wine, candles…” He runs a hand through his hair. “Christ, Jon, I’ve been sick over it all day.”

“Ah.” Jon’s cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink as he stares at the ring, then back up at Martin. “Ah,” he says again. “Sorry. For, er, ruining your plans, I suppose..?”

“No, no it’s, it’s alright, Jon,” Martin breathes out. He should say something else, definitely; they both just _proposed,_ he can’t just sit here, but he’s admittedly a bit shell-shocked. And Jon looks so beautiful right now, flushed and shy and just as lost as Martin. 

“...You could still ask,” Jon says tentatively, at last.

“What?” 

“Since I got my turn,” Jon explains. He stares down at his lap, hand curled around the box. “You could- still ask. If you wanted. So I don’t entirely rob you.” His lips curve in a rueful smile.

Martin snorts and shakes his head, endeared. “You didn’t _rob me,_ Jon.” But… “But, yeah, alright.” He clears his throat and sits up a bit straighter. Reaches out and takes Jon’s free hand gently in his. Jon looks up at him, so soft that it hurts. 

“Jon Sims,” Martin begins. His heart is hammering in his throat and all of the words he’d had planned, all of the grand affirmations and poetic declarations, have fled him entirely. But that’s okay. 

“Marry me? Please?” 

“Alright,” Jon says. It’s just a single word, but the look on his face tells Martin that he’d had plenty of his own flee him, too. 

And here in their new home with its shit water pressure, surrounded by the considerably more worse-for-wear clutter of their shared life, Martin sweeps the man he loves more than words can express into his arms and kisses him soundly. 

He may be crying just a bit when Jon finally pulls back with a muffled sound. Martin wipes at his eyes, peering at him. “Alright?” 

“...Yes.” Jon’s own eyes look suspiciously damp and he drops them to the little box that’s fallen into his lap. Martin sees him press his lips together. Pluck at the hem of his shirt. Finally he looks up again, a sheepish expression flitting over his face. “You, ah… you didn’t answer me.” 

Martin smiles at him - he can’t help it. Not right now. “Hm?” 

Jon wets his lips. “My- question. I answered yours, but you never answered mine.” 

“--Right, _right,_ sorry. Guess I didn’t,” Martin laughs. And god, he loves this man. “Yes, Jon. I’ll marry you.” 

“Thank you,” Jon says primly. And he scoots forward and presses himself decidedly back into Martin’s arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go. 
> 
> I cannot possibly thank everyone enough for all of the hundreds (absolutely wild. what the fuck.) of wonderful comments and encouragements and the kindest words. And fanart. And fucking memes. I almost didn't even publish this fic because I didn't really think it was that good, and I certainly didn't expect it to get the attention it has. You amazing people have, with no exaggeration on my part, been one of the best parts of my year. I am delighted beyond words that you've stuck with me and enjoyed this story so much and I swear my heart will never stop being warm ever again. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this conclusion, and thank you so much for reading. I love you all. Like legit. It's real.


End file.
